


Murder Is Like

by SylviaW1991



Series: Ineffable Ghost Wranglers [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adultery, Blood, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Corpse Mishandling, Demonic Possession, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), M/M, Murder Mystery, No beta we fall like Crowley, Non-Graphic Violence, One whole ghost, Original Character Death(s), Rimming, Smoking, The Antichrist did it, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Trickety Boo, True Forms, Yes those two are related, a little bit, canon-typical alcohol, or did he?, the mystery is not important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26829856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaW1991/pseuds/SylviaW1991
Summary: When Mr. Cortese and Mr. Harrison stumble across a deceased servant, there can only be one culprit. The Antichrist may be seven, but that's surely old enough to awaken some of his darkest powers.Or is it? It's up to one demon and one angel to find out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Ghost Wranglers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993135
Comments: 65
Kudos: 89
Collections: Top Crowley Library, Trick-Or-Treat!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skimmingthesurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the [Trickety Boo](https://tricketyboo2020.tumblr.com/) Good Omens Halloween event through the GO-Events server! Happy Halloween!!!
> 
> The prompt for the darling and brilliant [skimmingthesurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) was Murder at the Dowling Estate. And I went _wild_. Honestly, Skim, I didn't even know it was your prompt until you asked me which one I was doing. So I'm sorry I lied, and I hope you enjoy the surprise gift! lmao
> 
> If you're worried about the tags, I did my best to make it as acceptable as, say, Psych levels of respect. They are an angel and a demon who've seen a _lot_ of death, okay? And they act like it.
> 
> Thank you to [noodlefrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlefrog/pseuds/noodlefrog) and [ladydragona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydragona/pseuds/ladydragona) for helping soothe my fears 💖💖💖

_"Murder is like potato chips: you can't stop with just one."_

\- Stephen King

* * *

Mr. Cortese’s moan was like music to his ears. Something smooth and low like classic American blues or his favourite Velvet Underground records. It made Mr. Harrison grind again, teeth grazing his throat.

“Wicked thing,” Mr. Cortese gasped, fingers fumbling over Mr. Harrison’s belt. Sleek and black, it came loose with ease. A benefit, certainly, to modern clothing, but not something he was willing to share aloud. Not when his mouth could be doing other things like pressing against Mr. Harrison’s with another one of those moans.

“Diabolical tutors should definitely be wicked. Part of the job description, Mr. Cortese.”

Mr. Cortese’s giggle was cut off by his own breathless, keening sound when Mr. Harrison’s hands delved into the back of his trousers and squeezed. He didn’t know if he should rock into that firm grip or push forward to deliver a bit of teasing himself, but they were still in the hallway and one of them had to be practical. 

“I suppose ridiculous and - oh, gosh - ah... Ridiculous...”

“Said that. And you’re supposed to be covering English.”

“My dear boy, I’m far too busy debating on just how I’m going to cover _you_ to be properly articulate.”

“Ngk.”

Mr. Cortese gave him an arch look that was met with a very expected grin. Ridiculous, foolhardy, dashing, wicked thing. He’d take most of it as a compliment, so Mr. Cortese said none of it. “We’re still in the hall, Mr. Harrison. I think, ah, lesson plans should be discussed somewhere more private.”

“Right.” Mr. Harrison glanced at the study door they’d been kissing against to open it, and went right back to kissing as he backed Mr. Cortese into the room. Alone at last, Crowley’s hands were still very full and another squeeze earned a greedy sound that zipped straight down to his-

 _Squelch_.

Aziraphale broke the contact of their lips with a gasp. “Oh, my _shoes_. What on Earth did I just step in?”

“Are you really worried about your bloody shoes right now?”

Aziraphale tipped his head with a hum, feeling the scrape of Crowley’s beard against his throat. The scratch was a lovely contrast to the softness of his lips, nearly distracting him entirely from the body in the corner. He stiffened abruptly, sucking in a sharp breath that had nothing to do with arousal, and Crowley paused. “What?”

“I don’t suppose that’s your demonic work?”

Crowley turned his head, following Aziraphale’s gaze, and groaned in irritation. “Oh, fuck’s sake.”

“No, I didn’t think it was. Not quite your style.”

Crowley grunted, reluctantly separating. His dark red hair was mussed from Aziraphale’s fingers, his belt hanging open and swaying with his hips when he took a few steps closer to the corpse. His shoes very much stayed out of what Aziraphale realised was blood. Goodness, and it was on his shoes. “Death’s come and gone already,” Crowley mused, looking around over the tops of the slim sunglasses he’d adapted for this disguise. One of the many things Aziraphale liked about it were the glimpses he got of golden eyes. 

Aziraphale hummed, focusing on the human rather than his demon. One of the butlers, a charming young fellow who was always a bit too eager to please. One of Harriet Dowling’s, ah, _favourites_. She wasn’t likely to be pleased. By his rather messy passing or the blood-soaked carpets. Or the walls. He lifted his gaze curiously and could see blood spattered on the ceiling as well. “I think he was stabbed.”

Crowley looked over, taking in the white-blond curls sticking up every which way and the purse of kiss-red lips amidst the snow of his fluffy beard. Buttons were undone - mustard yellow waistcoat parted completely and tie loose. Such a stunning angel. “Looks like he was stabbed a _lot_.”

“Crime of passion, perhaps.”

“Or just blind rage.”

“Hardly a difference there, my dear.”

Crowley tipped his head in easy acceptance. It was all semantics anyway. Humans killed one another for all sorts of reasons. Though they’d been there seven years now and this seemed a little... different. He carefully grasped hair and a shoulder, easing the former butler forward a bit, and hummed. “We’ve got a murder weapon.”

“How nice.”

“Er. S’one of the kitchen knives.”

Aziraphale deflated immediately. “Ah. An impulsive killing? Perhaps there are fingerprints.”

Crowley watched a few extra eyes open across Aziraphale’s face and tried not to exude too much _want_ considering he was touching a dead human. The eyes were a multitude of shimmering colours and Crowley got the very distinct sense that at least one of them was lingering quite a bit on him.

Aziraphale hummed as he approached, very carefully avoiding the puddle, and Crowley cleaned his shoes and the red footprints he was leaving in his wake with a simple wave of his hand. The angel sent him a small, grateful smile before peering at the handle sticking out of the former butler’s back. “No fingerprints.”

“ _None_?”

“Not a one. Honestly, my dear, there’s nothing of visual interest.” The various eyes on his corporation seemed to flit and flutter, appearing where they wanted with each blink. The two he used most often shifted to Crowley, lashes fluttering. “Perhaps he saw who attacked him?”

Every eye turned expectantly to Crowley on the next blink, and he held up his hands, the body thwapping against the wall again with the sudden release. “I am _not_ -”

“Oh, we only need it for a moment. Just what his eyes saw. You can pull that out of his mind, can’t you?”

Crowley groaned, rocking back on his heels. “No, I’m not- I don’t even like going in when they’re _alive_. You think I’ll want in there when he’s _dead_?”

Every single eye _glittered_. “But, my dear, it would only be for a moment or two. Just long enough for us to put a face to the dastardly culprit. After all, once the police are telephoned, I’ll be obligated to provide assistance. The longer an investigation takes...”

Crowley scowled, hearing the thinly veiled threat clearly enough, arousal still very much prickling over his skin. Sometimes, he really didn’t know who was tempting who. “ _Fine_.” He buckled his belt as he crossed the study they’d ended up in, sprawling in one of the wingbacked chairs. A snap locked the door and closed the curtains over the bright windows. “It’ll take a mo’.”

“I have leagues of patience for you, darling.” Another blink vanished the extra eyes, Aziraphale clasping his hands as he watched Crowley suck in a breath and slowly exhale. As he did, a wobbling version of him stood. Separate from his body, he was like wisps of smoke. The suit he’d been wearing was still on his form, but charred at the ends. Burnt. Aziraphale could smell something deeper than woodsmoke, the Hellish brimstone wafting like a threat as the demon sauntered across the room and right into the butler.

There was absolutely no reason for that to have been attractive, but Aziraphale quietly wished he had a fainting couch available to swoon across. Some things should be done properly, after all.

The butler’s body sat up a little straighter, then his face shifted into a grimace. “Eugh, he’s _wet_ ,” the corpse said with Crowley’s voice. 

“That would be the blood, dear.”

It wasn’t _just_ blood, but Crowley wasn’t going to point that out. They both had noses. Human bodies died so _disgustingly_. He scowled with the butler’s face, his indignation ruined by the way the blade shifted when he moved. “Ooh. Not a fun way to die, stabbing. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I’ll make a note of it. Now his memories?” Aziraphale urged.

“Yeah, yes, I’m working on it. Refiring synapses isn’t _easy_ , y’know.”

“Perhaps not, but I have the utmost faith in you.” Having one of Crowley’s bland glares aimed his way through human eyes and someone else’s face was, Aziraphale decided, unappealing. The blood and other inherent unpleasantness aside, he preferred his demon’s face and eyes just as they were. Just as they’d been for six thousand years.

“Right, think I found- Oh, blech, too far back. He was with Harriet last night.”

“Ah.”

“M’never looking at her the same way again. She’s got a mole on her-”

Aziraphale’s brows arched. “ _Ah_.”

“Right, right, here we go.” Crowley offered a very pale hand and Aziraphale sighed before crouching down to take it.

It was suddenly the night before, and it was dark. He felt loose and limber, satisfied and a little sweaty.

> _“A little?!”_
> 
> _“Crowley, don’t be distracting.”_
> 
> _“Mrgh. At least the bloke died_ after _getting his jollies.”_
> 
> _“I am_ attempting _to pay attention, and I advise you do the same.”_

Nothing was out of the ordinary in the hall, but he’d rather not walk in the dark. He pulled his phone out and flicked on the flashlight, glancing at his notifications absently. Honestly, the Dowlings could probably afford to keep all the lights on at night, but okay, whatever.

> _“Just how old was this young man?”_
> 
> _“Now who’s getting distracted?”_
> 
> _“Oh, hush. But... what_ is _Tinder?”_
> 
> _“Hrk. Show you later.”_

There was a creak on the stairs as he passed them, heading towards his own room. When he looked, he couldn’t see anyone. A trickle of fear dripped down his spine, but he brushed the sensation away with a shake of his head.

> _“And this is why humans die.”_
> 
> _“Don’t be cruel, dearest.”_
> 
> _“M’not! S’not cruel to point out a bloody flaw. They’ve got thousands of years’ worth of instincts built up and they don’t use a single damn one.”_

His footsteps hurried despite himself, another creak making him swing around. His flashlight didn’t pick up anything unusual-

> _“What was that?”_
> 
> _“Shadow behind the planter? I saw it too.”_
> 
> _“Looks a bit, ah... small.”_
> 
> _“Ngk.”_

\- so he turned back around. “Idiot,” he said to himself, the sound of his own voice making him feel better as he hurried down the hallway.

As he drew closer to the study, he heard other footsteps. But each time he looked around, flashlight beaming wildly in the darkened hallway, there was nothing.

> _“How the_ fuck _is he missing these shadows? I know they’re all lower to the ground, but-”_
> 
> _“Humans are very used to being at the top of the food chain, darling. They don’t recognise when they’re being, er, hunted.”_

Breath coming out short and shallow, he pushed open the study door and stepped inside. He didn’t think to lock the door-

> _“Ah.”_
> 
> _“Yup.”_

\- when his mind was focused firmly on turning on a light. The switch wasn’t next to the door, so he quickly stepped away from it, flashlight aimed at the wall. Suddenly, there was pain. It exploded behind his eyes, his phone falling to the wooden floors with a clatter, the flashlight illuminating the chair Crowley’s corporation would rest in the following afternoon. 

The blade hacked through his shirt and into the skin-

> _“Oh-!”_
> 
> _“Angel, get out.”_
> 
> _“You don’t have to-”_
> 
> _“_ Out _.”_

Aziraphale jerked back, finding himself forced out of the scene very abruptly. He blinked at the sudden light, eyes watering a bit before he forced his corporation to cease that misbehavior. He looked at the body, its eyes closed but rhythmically jerking as the memory replayed. Again and again and again and Aziraphale lost track very quickly.

Swallowing, he scanned the scene again. All of the blood, the amount of spatter on the ceiling and walls especially, suddenly made quite a bit more sense. The young man’s phone was not where it had fallen - possibly taken by the killer? It was a very good lead. He hoped.

The body stopped twitching, drawing Aziraphale’s attention anew, and Crowley’s smoke-like figure emerged a moment later. Aziraphale quickly straightened. “My dear-”

“He didn’t see anything.” His voice somehow sounded as if it was coming from right next to him and from down the hall. Crowley waved a hand, tendrils of black smoke flicking away from his fingers with the dismissive move, and then he was back in his body.

The familiar corporation stretched before and after Crowley pushed himself out of the chair, the demon giving a serpentine sort of wiggle as he settled in his own familiar skin and bones again. He glanced at Aziraphale, sighing at the way he was wringing his hands together. He may have looked like some sort of sexy Santa, but he was still very much his angel. Equally sexy, but a lot more nervous than Cortese. “I’m _fine_.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” But he’d wondered, and they both knew it. “I didn’t realise you’d relive the pain he went through, Crowley, or I never would have suggested-”

“A few stabs in the back aren’t the worst things I’ve ever felt.” Crowley hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, leaning most of his weight on one leg. It was a pose that was desperate to be casual and, though Aziraphale wanted to ask, he thought better of it. Even _sauntering vaguely downward_ was likely to have hurt a great deal. “That’s all that happened. He didn’t see anything, and the killer didn’t _say_ anything. After he left, taking the phone with him, Mr. Sleeping-With-the-Boss’s-Wife there had enough strength to crawl to the wall and then he died.”

“I see.” Aziraphale glanced down at the body, sighing quietly. He’d made a poor mistake in his last moments, several of them. “I suppose he ended up as one of yours?”

“Myeh, but I doubt he’s in a deep circle. S’not really a happy marriage, is it?”

“Hm.” Technically, that was neither here nor there. Technically, it also mattered a great deal. Reasonings went further than black and white (Heavenly and Hellish) interpretations would prefer. “Anyway, if he didn’t see anything, I suppose that was... Well, nearly pointless.” Which made him feel all the worse for insisting Crowley go through with it. They could’ve at least handled it together.

“Well...”

Aziraphale looked over. “Well? Was there something else?”

“Ngk. Mrrgh. Bzgh...” He let out a few additional noises, Aziraphale’s smile threatening to curve with each uttered noise. “Er. During his lessons after lunch. With you. Did you see Warlock’s new phone?”

“He doesn’t have a phone, Crowley. He’s seven.”

“Right. Except really, truly, _incredibly_ wrong.”

Aziraphale stared at him, seconds ticking by as he looked from Crowley to the bloody corpse, and back to Crowley. The shadowy figure they’d seen dodging behind hallway plants and tables had seemed rather short. “He has a mobile telephone?” Aziraphale croaked.

“Yup.”

“A... A familiar one, I assume.”

“ _Really_ familiar.”

The Antichrist, they both thought, had gotten his first taste for blood.

* * *

The first step was to not telephone the police. 

The second step was to come up with what to say if Harriet mentioned the missing butler.

The third step, part A, was to have a minor meltdown over, “I thought you said he seemed _normal_ to you, Crowley!”

The third step, part C, was to soothe the minor meltdown with, “He _does_. Perfectly normal. Could be it happened in his sleep! How’m I s’posed to know? He never went around killing things when I was nannying him.”

The fourth step was to clean the study with a fingersnap.

The fifth step was to hide the body in a pocket dimension where it would remain in stasis and not decompose or do, well, any of the pesky things human bodies did after Death swept their souls to whichever side of the afterlife had the most marks.

The sixth step was to go find Warlock and chicken out before asking him how he acquired his new mobile telephone.

“Oh, well done.”

“Hush. You didn’t ask either.”

“Ngk.”

There were no more steps, the two of them instead collapsing onto cushions at the bookshop. Crowley sprawled across the sofa, jacket discarded and sunglasses on the table so he could press the heels of his palms into his eyes as he groaned.

Aziraphale sank into his favourite armchair, nursing a glass of scotch. Crowley’s empty one was on the coffee table, so Aziraphale gestured for the decanter to pour him a refill. “What,” he asked, “should we do about this?”

“What the Heaven are you talking about?” 

“The entire point of this plan of yours-”

“Of _mine_?!”

“-was to balance out the Heavenly and Hellish influences so he would be a normal child and not want to destroy the world.”

“ _My_ plan?” Crowley muttered. “My _idea_. _Our_ plan.”

“Crowley!”

“Fine, yes, that was the point. That’s still the point.” He waved a hand, the glass filling it. He shouldn’t have been able to take a drink lying down as he was, but he swallowed easily. He hadn’t expected any trouble. “What do _you_ think we should do about it?”

“I... Well.” Aziraphale took a careful sip instead of downing the glass in one go as he wanted. “I haven’t the first clue, actually. Perhaps my next assignment should be an essay on all the ways wherein murder is evil.”

“He’s seven. Does he even know what an essay is?”

Aziraphale downed the glass in one go. “No. No, he doesn’t.”

Crowley’s own freshly empty glass clinked against the coffee table and he went back to pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Stress was a Heaven/Hell of a thing, even for a demon and an angel. “Alright,” he eventually began, going no further.

Aziraphale poured a fresh glass for them both, swirling the amber liquid as he waited. This was either going to be an excellent idea or a truly terrible one, but Crowley was supposed to be the expert here. The boy, after all, was the _Anti_ christ. Aziraphale knew next to nothing about what was to be expected.

“Alright,” Crowley tried again, groping for his drink.

There were three more glasses of scotch drained and three more “alrights” before Crowley managed to continue. “I’m going to take a day off. Give you the whole day to teach him lessons. He’s got too much natural Hell in him, so you should get a day here and there to really cancel that out.”

“Crowley, that sounds _awful_.”

“No, I’ll give you my lesson plan. You can tell him all the things I was going to leave out.”

“Why don’t you just teach him the good things?”

“And confuse him? I’m the evil one.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale’s brows arched. “Since when?”

Crowley pressed his lips together, sinking further down on the sofa until his feet were hanging off the arm. “You _know_ what I mean.”

Aziraphale hummed, taking a sip of his scotch.

“Look, you got a better idea, angel? One single better idea?”

He took another, longer sip. “No,” he admitted with a sigh. “Alright. I’ll take a full day with him. It’ll give me a chance to remind him of the lessons I taught him as Brother Francis.”

“How to look ridiculous and take care of plants without getting dirt under your nails?” Aziraphale leveled him with quite the Look for that, and Crowley grinned. “Fine, fine. You do that, and I’ll meet you here after so you can tell me how it goes.”

“Will I get a reward if it goes well?” he asked lightly, deceptively so.

The very interrupted heat that had been between them before this disaster flared in Crowley’s gut. “‘Course,” he agreed without hesitation. “Want one now?”

Aziraphale smiled.

* * *

The butler was just another rumour of the Dowling Estate over the next few days. In hushed whispers, of course, and with an air of utter confusion. Though there was plenty of speculation, no one was sure where he’d gone or why, though no one connected his mobile telephone with the one Warlock Dowling kept trying to play with. Aziraphale was nearly at his limit, the word “brat” nearly escaping _twice_. Twice! Oh, it was awful. Mr. Cortese did _not_ lose his patience, but if he saw that bloody electronic brick one more time...

He had to cut the morning lesson short, stealing into the kitchens to sit with the cook. He’d become quite close to her when posing as Brother Francis, so was slowly rebuilding that rapport as Mr. Cortese. He couldn’t bring her the occasional flower any longer, so he hoped casual conversation would be enough to get him a glass of American lemonade.

“There’s talk,” she whispered, handing him his desired glass _and_ a biscuit, “that he and Mrs. Dowling were _intimate_.”

Mr. Cortese took a sip of lemonade, enjoying the tart sweetness. Lemons, water, and sugar - such a simple, wonderful creation. “Is there? How unusual.”

“Oh, he isn’t her _only_ secret.” The cook winked and leaned in, voice lowering. “Can you keep one, Mr. Cortese?”

“Of course. Several, in fact.”

“My own assistant has been known to share her bed a time or two. Staying late, you understand. Now I don’t blame Mrs. Dowling for feeling lonely with her husband home so little, but a lady should have standards. And use protection.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Warlock,” she whispered, “doesn’t look a thing like either of them, does he?”

Mr. Cortese choked on his lemonade.

* * *

He heard Harriet giggling before he rounded the corner, gritting his teeth briefly before smoothing his expression into something less likely to get him fired. An angel getting fired. It was absolutely ludicrous.

Nearly as ludicrous as the idea that Harriet thought she was at all subtle. Fluttering lashes and coy smiles were _his_ weapons of choice against Crowley, and he did not like to see someone else using them so freely. At least Mr. Harrison wasn’t giggling with her, taking a slow drag of his cigarette instead. Mr. Cortese’s fingers itched for one, but he only took up a cigarette where humans wouldn’t see. Ever since he’d discovered how dangerous and addictive it was for them, he’d been doing his best to avoid presenting such negative influences.

Mr. Harrison had no such qualms, angling that sharp jaw upwards as he blew out a slow stream of smoke. Mr. Cortese wanted to bite his adam’s apple or slide something far more substantial than smoke between those loosely parted lips, get his inner thighs rubbed raw by the neatly trimmed beard highlighting those wonderful angles. Goodness, Harriet’s flirtations had a terrible habit of getting under his skin. He really needed to be better about that.

“Oh. Hi, Mr. Cortese,” Harriet greeted, missing the easy grin Mr. Harrison sent his way. Mr. Cortese’s lips curved to match because the tutors were allowed to be friends. It was smarter to be friends and it was _lovely_ to be able to treat Crowley the way he’d yearned to for millennia. Easy smiles, easy touches, shared laughter and, well, all the things they did alone anyway. But Mr. Cortese and Mr. Harrison could be friendly in _public_ , and it was truly tickety-boo.

“Hello, Mrs. Dowling. Mr. Harrison.”

Mr. Harrison took a slow drag of his cigarette. “Mr. Cortese,” he exhaled and Mr. Cortese refused to rise to the bait. Well.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” He smiled at Harriet, paying far more attention to the way Mr. Harrison followed the curve than the way she did. 

“Absurdly lovely. One of the best days in ages.”

Mr. Harrison couldn’t help the grin at Mr. Cortese’s absently puzzled look, knowing full well that Aziraphale was completely oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t the only tutor she had designs on. Mr. Harrison was far from the only being who could resist an angel who’d decided to go a little... feral. “Yesterday wasn’t bad,” he said, just to be contrary. “Did you need something Mr. Cortese, or are you just interested in the... views?”

“I was hoping to steal a moment of your time, Mr. Harrison. Before your lessons with young Warlock.”

He dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his shoe. “Of course. If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Dowling?”

“Oh, it’s Harriet. Please. I keep telling you both.”

The two man-shaped beings exchanged quick glances, one of them very much not smiling and the other breaking into a grin. “We’ll try to remember. Come on, Mr. Cortese. I’d _love_ to know what you need to discuss.”

Mr. Cortese took quite a bit of delight in how simple it was to get Mr. Harrison away from the woman, though he had very few doubts that the demon was enjoying her attention in some fashion. He’d always been like that, the ridiculous flirt. Not one to dabble in actually engaging in, ah, certain acts with humans, but he liked to rile them up. It checked two boxes on Hell’s reports, as he’d so cheerfully explained to a very not jealous Aziraphale one night quite a few centuries behind them. Three, even, if he played things just right: lust after him, wrath when they didn’t get him, and envy if he had a chance to walk away on someone else’s arm.

Suddenly it made quite a bit more sense why it was so very easy to get him away from Harriet. Mr. Cortese decided not to be annoyed by that, but Aziraphale would decide later. “I was in the kitchens,” he began quietly as they made their way through the halls, “and the cook informed me that Harriet has _more_ servants whom she is engaging with... trysts. Apparently, the cook’s very own assistant is among them.”

“She likes when he eats her out on the counters.”

Mr. Cortese’s foot made a very sudden and very unpleasant connection with a side table, and Mr. Harrison was quick to grab his elbow to keep him from stumbling. “I beg your pardon.”

He laughed, a cackle far too Crowley to be Mr. Harrison, and nudged his slim glasses down enough to wink at him. “She told Nanny Ashtoreth all about it.”

“Oh, good Lord. Then you knew?”

“Angel, Harriet’s wrapped her legs around nearly every person she’s ever hired. As soon as she figures out that she can trust them to keep their mouths shut, anyway.”

“Oh, good Lord,” he repeated, a little more dazed. “But that’s... Well, it’s _highly_ inappropriate.”

“Dunno that she’s worried about that.” They paused outside of Nanny Ashtoreth’s old bedroom. It was incredibly close to Warlock, so not a stop they made often, but Crowley swept open the door and angled his head.

Sighing, Aziraphale crossed the threshold. “Was it your influence?” he demanded, partly out of habit and partly out of sheer curiosity.

“Nah.” Crowley was far more amused than offended by the question. “From what I’ve gathered, she was a party girl even in uni. Marriage didn’t settle her down so much as it gave her a new playground.”

“Ah.” It was more of a relief to him than it was to the sanctity of marriage. “Have you learned anything?”

“A bit. She mentioned him.”

“Did she?”

“Mm. Wanted to know if I knew where he’d gone. I think she’s worried that her husband may have found out and paid him to leave.”

Aziraphale hummed, taking a seat on the edge of a chair near the window whilst Crowley sprawled across the foot of the bed like the tempting thing he was. Aziraphale’s hands folded neatly. “If she’s engaging in multiple affairs at once, he would have to have very deep pockets. What did you tell her?”

“That he was young and young people like to go off on spontaneous adventures.” He shrugged. “And, y’know, that she shouldn’t waste time worrying about someone who may not come back.”

If they tried, they could feel the body floating in the ether. 

Looking out the window, Aziraphale hummed again. “Anything else?”

“Found out she doesn’t like the new gardener.”

Brow rising, Aziraphale looked back at him. He and Crowley would’ve disagreed about the levels of smugness in his smile. “Oh?”

“Yup. She says he’s dirtier than the last bloke, stares at her too much, and the roses don’t look as good.”

“Well, it’s been some time since you had a chat with them.”

“Oi, roses are prissy things,” Crowley reminded him. Again. They’d both lost track of how many times now. “And it’s not like I have an incentive to worry about the Dowling roses anymore, do I? Or anything else in that garden. I’ve got my own plants to focus on again.”

Which was a relief during this half of their, ah, godfather venture. They could each take more time away from the estate to manage things as they liked. Indulge in their own hobbies just in case things went very wrong at the end of eleven years, though that wasn’t a thing they were saying aloud. Aloud, they were both positive that things were going swimmingly. No worries from either of them, no sir. Everything was going to be just fine, and there needn’t be a war at all.

“Of course. Why were you discussing the gardener?”

“Myeh. He waved at Harriet while we were outside and she waved back. Y’know, she asked if I’d talk to him.” Crowley grimaced, the very thought of being considered anyone’s _rescuer_ appalling. He had one disastrous being who needed him; he didn’t have the capacity or desire to handle more.

Aziraphale’s brows drew together. “Whatever for?”

“She doesn’t like him, and wants someone to let him down easy.” Crowley grinned. “I told her to ask you.”

“Oh, you wily old serpent,” Aziraphale huffed, straightening his waistcoat. “I most certainly will not. She needs to be an adult and speak to him herself.”

“Well... bless her into it then.”

“I’ll _encourage_ it should she bring it up with me. Have you learned anything else from anyone this morning?”

“Nah. We’re still too new, I think. S’only been a year. Ashtoreth had them all eating out of the palm of her hand, y’know. Can’t make that happen overnight, ‘specially since we’re ‘outsiders.’”

Puzzled, Aziraphale tipped his head. “Outsiders?”

“Yeah, y’know. We don’t live at the estate anymore. Harder to get people to open up when we don’t have a place like we used to, so people aren’t as willing to talk to me about Warlock as they used to be.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that as well. It didn’t occur to me that we’d be seen as outsiders, though. Cook was so kind to me today, too.”

“What’s the cook’s name?”

Aziraphale only stared at him blankly a moment before flushing, and Crowley laughed and laughed. He didn’t know either.

* * *

After two weeks, the police arrived at the estate and sent the servants into quite the tizzy. Harriet was amongst them, pacing one of the grand living rooms whilst on a phone call with her husband, trying her best to explain the police presence. The butler had been reported missing by his mother.

“What should we do?” Aziraphale whispered, hands clasped as they watched the men searching downstairs. They each got the strongest urge not to come up each time they approached the grand staircase, to buy the angel and the demon some time.

The demon was contemplating stopping it entirely for all the ideas he actually had. “Uh. Put him back?”

“Put him _back_?” Aziraphale whispered, aghast.

“In the ssstudy,” he clarified, waving a hand. “Put the mess back and all. How we found him.”

“But he hasn’t been here for two weeks, Crowley. Won’t someone get suspicious?”

“‘Course, but what the Heaven would you rather we do?”

“Well...”

They put the body in the backyard under some bushes, Crowley positioning the scene and body just so whilst Mr. Cortese gave a casual suggestion to one of the detectives that, perhaps, he’d been taken outside. Where dead human bodies belonged, yes. It was perfectly logical.

* * *

For the most part, the investigation happened off of the premises so life at the Dowling Estate largely continued as normal. If servants tended to have heatedly whispered conversations that ended abruptly when Mr. Cortese entered a room, Aziraphale was happily oblivious. One maid had overheard the very odd way the tutor had spoken to the officers before the body had been found, so conclusions were mixed.

Either the maid had misheard, she was lying outright, Mr. Cortese had found the body and telephoned the police himself, or Mr. Cortese had killed the man and then disposed of the body. That the police didn’t seem interested in arresting him was the only real point in his favour.

That, and he was unfailingly polite. Except, perhaps, he was _too_ polite and so the suspicion persisted. Crowley could feel their suspicion. It was a ripe sort of emotion for tempting, just the sort of thing that would be easy to tip towards outright chaos. He’d seen many a riot or figurative (and literal) witch hunt happen after suspicion was allowed to explode. He smoothed fires where he could, letting suspicion slide to himself instead without considering the fact that the entire household was aware that Mr. Cortese and Mr. Harrison were joined at the hip and, occasionally, in other more intimate places. The only thing that changed was how often they were able to sneak into side rooms without a miracle - infernal, of course - smoothing the way.

Thaddeus Dowling arrived for three days, long enough to speak with officers and ensure that the case would be kept far, _far_ away from the press before leaving again.

It wasn’t enough time for Harriet, and it wasn’t either tutor who stumbled upon a maid two mornings after Thaddeus’s departure.

A different maid running by the study Mr. Cortese had a child corralled in was certainly attention grabbing. He reached for the phone after setting the boy off on a writing exercise. “I think you should come a bit early today, Mr. Harrison. Ah. Now, as a matter of fact. Someone’s screaming about... someone new. Someone, er, beyond assistance, as it were.”

Mr. Harrison was inside less than five minutes later, making his way up the stairs. He met Mr. Cortese by the same study the butler had been found in, hands clasped together. “Well?”

“It’s the same. No fingerprints, one of the kitchen knives, and quite a bit of blood spatter. She’s in a different place, however, and the police are on their way.”

“No time to lose, then.”

“No, I should think not.”

Crowley stepped into the study, unsurprised by the amount of blood. Red scattered across the walls, streaking over the ceiling. The desk had a telling, smeared handprint and, behind it, was a woman with her stained hands wrapped around a cordless phone that had not been able to help her. Some part of Crowley thought he should be a bit horrified, but they’d seen humans do so much worse than this to one another. A blade sticking out of the top of a head was more something one would find in a costume aisle nowadays. “A woman this time?”

“One of the maids. Ah. She typically cleans the bedrooms.”

“Oh, that’s why I recognise her,” he hummed, the door politely sealing for them as Crowley made for the same chair as he’d settled in the last time. “She didn’t like me.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t let her touch my room.”

“Oh, yes, the mysterious nanny.”

Unashamed, Crowley grinned at him and closed his eyes. A moment later, that smokey discorporated version stood up and, just for fun, walked straight through Aziraphale to make him shiver. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, must you?”

“What? Just a little ghostly pass-through.”

“Is this what you do when you haunt places?”

“Angel, I am _much_ more creative than that.” But he didn’t elaborate, sinking into the departed maid.

A moment later, her mouth opened. “Oh, ew.”

“What?”

“She went to _your_ side. I think-” Crowley pushed the body up into a seated position, the murder weapon wobbling like some sort of rubbery toy. Streaked with red, her face went contemplative. “Ohh.”

“What?”

“Fancied herself in love with Harriet. Another one of her affairs, this one.”

“Was she?”

“Yeah. And- Oh, come _on_ , I didn’t want _that_ taste in my mouth ever.” He smacked her lips together before they twisted in a grimace. “She went down on-”

“ _Please_ hurry along to the relevant scene this instant,” Aziraphale insisted. “We really do not have time for you to examine the tryst.”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively before offering it. Aziraphale hesitated a moment before accepting the hold.

And they were a maid, high heeled shoes clasped in her grip as she tip-toed across the carpet in stockinged feet. Her body felt loose and satisfied, mind and heart buzzing with both guilt and joy. It really wasn’t the best thing, was it, to spent evenings with Mrs. Dowling. She was her boss and _married_ , but it made her feel so incredibly special.

> _“Oh, the poor dear did think she was in love.”_
> 
> _“Told you.”_
> 
> _“Oh...”_

She tugged at her clothes to make sure everything was as straight as can be, and her breath caught when she saw a tiny shadow in the hall. “Master Warlock,” she whispered, “what do you think you’re doing up this late?”

“I was looking for mummy.” He yawned, rubbing one eye, and she smiled. He was such a sweet dear thing.

> _“If only she knew.”_
> 
> _“He_ is _sweet, Crowley.”_
> 
> _“He’s already killed someone, angel. Two someone’s, I’d wager.”_
> 
> _“...Ah. Yes. Right.”_

“Come on now. Mummy’s having herself a nice, warm bath.” And she was certainly not disappointed that she hadn’t been asked to join.

> _“...”_
> 
> _“...”_

She took his hand and pulled him down the hall, back towards his bedroom, and it was like watching something in fast-forward. Tuck him in, kiss his forehead, check his nightlight, closer the door behind her. The thoughts and conversation rushed into them nevertheless, time and sense not really having any place in the replay of a memory, particularly not when none of it really mattered.

What did matter was the way the door opened before the maid turned down the hall, and the way a small slippered foot crept back into the hall.

> _“You know, I... I was so hoping we were wrong.”_
> 
> _“Pnghuyup.”_

The little shadow followed her, unseen and unnoticed, but seemed to disappear when she passed Harriet’s bedrooms. Beyond the stairs, though, the lighting changed, the shadows lengthened, and she swallowed her discomfort. As much as she wanted to rush forward and escape the tension creeping up her spine to hunch her shoulders, she kept her steps slow and deliberate.

> _“Fuck’s sake._
> 
> _“Hush!”_

At the study, she was grabbed by a firm hand around her wrist, and her scream was cut off by a sharp sli-

Aziraphale was alone outside of the body. No warning this time, but he still brought a hand up to his throat as if he’d find a gash. The hand hadn’t felt like a child’s, but it was very likely that it hadn’t been a hand at all but energy. It was even possible that the boy had risen a golem to dispose of this latest victim. The poor dear.

She’d been one of his, too, a good person without nearly enough marks against her to be sent Downstairs. She likely would’ve been a boon in raising Warlock had she not earned his ire instead, which was odd. That was two people who’d been killed leaving Harriet’s bedchambers.

“Got a problem,” Crowley said, the dark smokey version of him rising from the maid to return to his own corporation.

“Well, yes, Crowley, he’s killed two people now. I should say that’s a rather large-”

“She hid from Death.”

Aziraphale went quiet, sighing heavily. “Oh, dear. I _really_ don’t have the patience to handle a vengeful spirit, Crowley.”

“She’s more heartbroken, I think. Probably wouldn’t turn vengeful unless she found out Harriet was sharing her bed with a lot more people than just her.”

“I suppose that depends on how often she does, doesn’t it? And how soon we find the girl. I’ll just, ah, encourage to seek the light.”

“Mm, yeah, she was definitely one of yours,” Crowley acknowledged, dropping into the chair and wiggling a bit as he settled in his own corporation once again. Taking in the look Aziraphale was giving him, he sighed. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Perhaps next time, you shouldn’t stay through the entire murder. It surely can’t be pleasant for you to-”

“Angel, it’s _fine_.” He stood, neatly buttoning his jacket. “Trust me, stabbing doesn’t take much imagination. Hell’s figured it out.”

Aziraphale’s brows drew together. “Do they-”

“Anyway, police are coming, yes? Flip for who helps them or goes ghost hunting.”

Whilst Crowley drew a coin from his pocket, Aziraphale studied him carefully. He did know Hell didn’t send rude notes when they were displeased. But Crowley tended to be very tight-lipped when it came to what exactly they did when. He may have gotten more commendations than Aziraphale, Hell far more invested in Earth than Heaven often seemed to be, but that hardly meant he wasn’t also often reprimanded. “No need. I’ll assist the police, dearest.”

“No, see, they don’t need help. They need misdirection. Besides, ghost girl is destined for your side. I can’t guide spirits to that particular light, angel.”

“Yes, but you can’t _misdirect_ the officers. That’s not at all- Heads,” he called when the coin was tossed into the air. 

“Tails. I’ve got the police.”

“The detective inspectors, I expect.”

“Angel, you would likely be astounded by the depths of my ability to not care.”

Aziraphale smiled. No, what always astounded him was just the opposite. Even after all these years, the depths of Crowley’s ability to care about things was a beautiful surprise. His smile faded, though, as he looked back down at the girl. A little wave rearranged her as she’d been found, a quick blink of too many eyes showed no fingerprints on the knife or anything else of particular value.

Such a shame, really. All these humans killing one another for the most foolish of reasons, though this one at least seemed as if it could be... Well, a _smidgen_ virtuous. It would be a relief if the deaths were for a cause besides the simple bloodlust of the Antichrist. “Could it be, Crowley, that he's attempting to protect his mother?” 

“Protect-” Crowley frowned at him. “Warlock? That doesn't make any sense, angel.”

“It's only that, well, both of these have involved one of Harriet's... indiscretions.”

“Lovers. You can call them lovers.” Aziraphale clasped his hands together, gazing at Crowley in quiet hurt until he waved a hand. “ _What_?” 

“That label should hold more import than that. At least it does to me, and I suspect it did to the young lady here.”

That... That couldn't mean what Crowley wanted it to mean. He shook his head a little helplessly. “Fuck-buddies, then. That's meaningless.”

Aziraphale studied him another moment before sighing. “Point being, my dear, this is the second of her indiscretions to be killed. What if Warlock is attempting to, ah, defend his mother's honour? Or the sanctity of marriage?” 

“He's seven.”

“He's also killed two people rather brutally.”

“Mngh, yeah. Fair point. But two... Two's a coincidence. Three's a pattern.”

“I suppose so. Alright, well, I’m off to locate a ghost. Go easy on the detective inspectors, won’t you?”

He grinned. “Might.”

“Devil,” Aziraphale accused, too much fondness in the word.

* * *

“Any luck?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid. How was dealing with the police?”

“They didn’t suspect Warlock. Didn’t even have to do anything to ensure that, but one of the butlers noticed me listening in.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Nosy shite.”

“Well. Will I see you later tonight? At the bookshop?”

“Mngh... Maybe. Got to give a report.”

“Ah. Do stay safe, darling.”

“Right.”

* * *

There were only two dead humans. It wasn’t really _that_ bad, considering just how many people worked at the Dowling Estate and how many people Warlock came into contact with on a daily basis. He should’ve murdered loads more than two people by now, though that knowledge didn’t comfort Crowley much and he had the distinct impression that it wouldn’t comfort Aziraphale all that much either.

What they needed was an afternoon away from the Estate, away from the Antichrist, and into the world. The bookshop was locked when Crowley approached, bottle of wine in hand and an invitation to dinner in mind, but that had never stopped him before. Both door and wards parted for him easily, the bookshop settling around him like a warm embrace as it always did. It, more than anything, was a wonderful gauge of just how much Aziraphale did actually want him around. Even before all the impending Apocalypse business.

Though before the impending Apocalypse business, he’d never walked in on _this_. He nearly dropped the wine as he rounded the corner, staring at the absolute feast before him. Aziraphale sprawled on the couch - _Crowley’s_ couch - with his head pressed back against the armrest. His knees were bent, toes curled, and he had a firm hand around his flushed cock. The only things he wore were the signet ring on his pinky and a pretty blush.

“If this is what I get to see when I don’t call ahead, I’m losing your number.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, hand flying away from his length before he drew both of them back down as if to hide, and Crowley’s grin flashed. Bright and wicked.

“S’nothing I haven’t seen before, angel. Dunno why you’re being shy.”

“I-” Aziraphale pressed his lips together, the flush deepening. “You said you weren’t coming today.”

“Well, plans change. Besides, I only said _maybe_.” Though now dinner was now the furthest thing from his mind. He took a few steps closer, waiting for Aziraphale to tell him to leave or for him to put some clothes on. Even covering up with one of the blankets would’ve been enough of a message, but Aziraphale only watched him in that considering way of his. The way he’d look at a menu sometimes when he just couldn’t decide what he wanted. “This is what you do when I’m not here?”

Aziraphale hummed, scooting up on the couch. He watched Crowley’s face, knowing full well where his gaze was even with the sunglasses still on. “Occasionally. I’ve discovered it serves as a decent way to remove tension. Are you feeling... tense, darling?”

“Might be.” Crowley whisked off his sunglasses, setting them and the wine bottle on the coffee table. The white was slowly disappearing from his eyes, his attention most definitely torn. Aziraphale’s face or his cock, the way he’d gone back to idly stroking himself. He wetted his lips, and the angel chuckled. 

“Well, I suppose now that you’re here, I should be a decent host and offer a way for you to, ah, relieve your tension.”

“Could do. What about yours?” 

Aziraphale's hand paused. He was still eyeing Crowley like a menu, but he was smiling as if he'd made his choices and now had to convince Crowley to order one of the options. Not that it was ever difficult. And not as if it would be difficult here either. 

He rolled onto his hands and knees and looked over at Crowley. “I'd very much like it if you used your tongue.”

“On your...” Crowley stepped forward, fingers running along his curves. “Want to get opened up on my tongue, Aziraphale?” 

“Oh...” He lowered until his cheek was pressed to the blanket. “I'd like that very much, yes.”

Crowley could hardly believe it, but there was most definitely an eyeful of hungry angel on the sofa just for him. The sofa he had spent many an afternoon napping on, drinking on, chatting on, admiring on... wishing on. He swallowed hard, watching Aziraphale reach back and spread himself open. He bared his pink pucker for Crowley’s gaze, knees shifting on the blankets. Most of his body was on the blue one, and Crowley had the distinct urge to drag him back, haul him onto the red side in some sort of territorial claim. Coil around him and _squeeze_ victoriously. 

He didn't, putting his own knees on the fabric instead. “You really want this?” he wondered, as if he hadn't just walked in on Aziraphale having a wank on this very couch. As if they haven't gone at it several times in these disguises. Something about the impending end of the world had triggered a lot of pent up need this last year. 

“I want... I want _you_ , my dear. In any ways I can be permitted to have you.”

“M-might take a while,” Crowley squawked.

“Will this? Do you need an instruction manual, Crowley?” Aziraphale smiled against the cushion, though gasped helplessly when his arse was pinched. “Devil,” he accused breathlessly. 

“Yup,” he agreed easily. And, before Aziraphale could protest further, he could feel the scrape of that auburn beard against the curve of a buttock. Wet, sucking kisses from soft lips created enough dissonance to force out an embarrassing whine. “Gagging for it already, angel?”

“We both know I was quite close before you even walked in, you- _oh_.” He really shouldn’t enjoy the nip of those wicked teeth as much as he did, the dig of nails into the softness of sensitive thighs. He did so love when Crowley paid attention there, breath escaping in gasping moans when his attempts to rub his thighs together were thwarted by that grip tightening. He could feel the hint of demonic influence, in fact, widening the couch to encourage Aziraphale’s legs to part even further. “You wily thi- _ing_ ,” Aziraphale moaned, cheek rubbing against the blanket.

Crowley’s tongue had finally found its mark. Thick and wet, it swept along the pink pucker Aziraphale had exposed to him. Again and again, almost clumsy if not for the deliberate catch of the tip against the rim. It was a tease of his actual skill, his tongue capable of such _interesting_ things. In his teasings, he licked like Aziraphale was an ice cream cone and, oh, he was certainly melting under such heated attention.

He was barely cognizant of the sounds spilling into the air, but Crowley was certainly aware. Every gasp of his name, every punchily moaned plea of _yes_ and _more_. They sang through Crowley’s mind, ringing straight from his ears to his cock. It was a good thing the tutor slacks weren’t as tight as his preferred denims or this would be entirely unbearable rather than just a little bit. Still, there was quite a bit of pleasure to be found in having Aziraphale - chubby, gorgeous Aziraphale with his golden stretch marks and his prettily manicured hands - pushing back against his face, singing his praises. 

There was just something very intriguing, in a deliciously forbidden way, about an angel praising a demon. Being called _kind_ or _nice_ or any such things usually mortified him, made him want to brush it away and forget, but this? Lust pumping off his angel in thick, sweat-slicked waves and complimenting his “glorious tongue, darling, _please_ ,” was special, and he was greedy for more. 

He kept his tongue in check, human shaped and not forked at all, as he finally focused his attention on the pink ring of muscle. Wrapped in Aziraphale’s pleasure, wanting to be wrapped in something more substantial, he focused and wriggled and pressed until the tip of his tongue breached that ring. Aziraphale shuddered, thighs flexing deliciously under Crowley’s hands in an attempt to squeeze shut. They did it again, a pleasured wail filling the bookshop, when Crowley’s tongue abruptly changed shape. Longer and forked, he snaked it in further and felt Aziraphale’s clench. His tongue twisted and flicked, found the places that made Aziraphale keen, that made the air shimmer with ozone. His own spit dripped down his chin, wet and glistening, whilst Aziraphale fell apart under tongue and the unfamiliar scrape of a beard against sensitive skin.

He’d offered Aziraphale a mustache ride in the seventies, alongside a smug smirk and a wink he’d been too drunk to remember wouldn’t be seen through sunglasses, but he hadn’t been drunk enough to miss the pause of consideration before Aziraphale had feigned ignorance and made his excuses to leave the disco they’d found themselves sharing a booth in. If he’d known he’d just have to wait a few more decades, that edge of disappointment might’ve been easier to handle.

“Crowley-! Crowley, fingers, please.”

A single digit filled him easily, tongue retreating back into his mouth. Aziraphale made a sound of protest, but Crowley added a second finger to keep him open and stimulated. “M’not done with my mouth,” he promised, letting a teasing hint of fang graze a buttock just to watch Aziraphale bounce. “Not when you’re so good,” he murmured, feeling a spike in the lust around him. As much a zing as Crowley got from Aziraphale’s praise, he’d noticed that Aziraphale got quite a bit more than a _zing_. It wasn’t much of a surprise. The angel was more likely to be punished for too many good deeds than praised for them. Where Crowley had enough commendations to fill a few scrapbooks, Aziraphale had one medal which represented a time wherein Heaven had been ready to whisk him back Upstairs.

No, praise for Aziraphale had always been in disturbingly short supply and Crowley was happy to remedy that. “You beautiful thing, my lovely angel.” Crowley shifted closer, wedging his knees between Aziraphale’s so they couldn’t close. His free hand stroked down his length, achingly hard and flushed so prettily. He dripped over Crowley’s fingers and he leaned in to press a sucking kiss to a buttock.

“Ah- Mm- _Crowley_.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it? You should always feel this good. You should always get to have exactly what you want.”

“You,” he gasped, and there was the zing for Crowley. He wanted to be what the angel wanted, wanted to be worth that right down to the cavern in his chest where Grace had once lived.

“You have me. But you deserve _everything_.” His fingers spread, tongue pressing back in with ease even as Aziraphale began to clench even tighter. He was so close, but he’d hardly stop at one. They never did when there was time and Crowley would be damned - again - if he didn’t make the time tonight. He’d freeze everything just to keep pleasing his angel.

Aziraphale would probably let him, the burn of his beard a pleasure he was starting to get used to, the wickedness of his tongue something he never would, and the words of praise replacing his mind with cotton and his blood with crackling lightning. His cock bobbed heavily as he pushed his hips back to get more - more of those fingers, more of that writhing tongue. He wailed when his cock was surrounded by long fingers, letting go suddenly. It ricocheted through him, hands slipping away to yank helplessly against the blankets he spilled over. 

Crowley’s hands, his tongue, didn’t stop until Aziraphale’s hips tried to pull away rather than push closer. He lifted up to his knees and leaned over him, cupping his hips and pressing kisses to each of the dimples at the small of his back. Little secrets only Crowley was privy to. “Alright, angel?”

“Yes,” he sighed after a moment, looking over his shoulder. “You seem a bit overdressed, darling.”

“You had a head start,” Crowley reminded him, “but I think you like it.” Crowley certainly did. He banished both waistcoat and belt, feeling Aziraphale shiver when the tie brushed his skin. “Pretty angel,” he hummed, lips trailing higher up his back. His hands slid down, the sound of his zip as audible as the catch of Aziraphale’s breath. “Do you want to be filled? Do you want to come again, split open on my cock?” He punctuated each question with a wet kiss, teeth a teasing hint. “You always open so well for me, angel. Always so perfect to sssink into, all hot and mine.”

The slip of his hiss made Aziraphale squirm as much as the words, knowing Crowley was as affected as he was. Temptation incarnate, but never above being lured into a temptation or two himself. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I want.”

“Clothes?”

Aziraphale smiled. They both knew the answer, but he very much adored him for asking. “On, if you would.”

Crowley draped himself along his back, nosing into the nape of his curls and nestling his length in the crack of Aziraphale’s arse. His hips moved in lazy little ruts, making Aziraphale shiver. “I knew you’d like this. Seeing me in an actual suit. The closest you’ll come to modern times are the bloody fifties,” he teased.

“Forties,” Aziraphale admitted, wiggling his hips. 1941, if he had to be specific, but Crowley never made him. “Come now, you wicked thing, I know you want some relief.”

“All about me, is it?” Crowley slid a hand down, hips retreating to slip his fingers inside him again. A thought slickened the digits, Aziraphale’s little gasp of delight lighting him up inside. He lifted enough to watch pale lashes flutter, free hand sliding up to cup his jaw and gently scritch the snow white of his beard. Ethereally soft and so entirely new on a face which hadn’t changed at all in six thousand years. A lot could in what could be the last few, and Crowley was going to cling to every moment they could steal together with both hands. “It’sss definitely not about me. Just you and whatever you want, my gorgeous angel.”

“I told you what I want, and yet you continue to-” He broke off on a keening sound, pushing his jaw into Crowley’s hand and his hips back when the fingers buried deep reached just the right spot. “ _Crowley_!”

“That’s it, angel. It’s so very much all about you. You’re ssstunning like this. When you want me.”

“Always, then. It’s always, sweet.”

“Aziraphale...” Crowley dropped a kiss to his shoulder, sucking a mark into flesh to keep from saying something incredibly soppy and stupid. His cock slickened as he withdrew his fingers, and his hand slid down to his waist to grip, the other curling around his cock to guide himself in. Twin moans escaped as only the tip breached his entrance, and Crowley’s other hand lifted to his waist. He held tight, both to keep Aziraphale still and to give himself an anchor as he slowly, fully filled him. They both knew Aziraphale could break out of the hold if he wanted to, the angelic strength always just under the surface, but he trusted Crowley enough to let him lead. It was as humbling as it was electric.

“Fuck,” he breathed, “you’re perfect. You’re beautiful, angel. How’sss it feel?”

“Marvelous.” And, oh, did it. He’d learned Crowley’s body well in the year since he’d finally given in to the things they’d both wanted for so long, spurned on by a possible end. He told himself it was to give them both something to fight for, but the stirrings went far deeper. This need was far too ancient for such a flimsy excuse as that, but Aziraphale was an excellent liar if only to himself. He moved his hips, felt the drag of Crowley’s length and the trembling of his grip. Between his thighs, his cock was hard and dripping once again as much from his disinterest in a refractory period as from the effect Crowley alone had on him. “Move, dearest.”

He didn’t need more than that, a hand diving into Aziraphale’s curls. Gasping at the possessiveness of the move, Aziraphale rocked back to meet Crowley’s first thrust and felt it tingle all the way up his spine. The sensations made his eyes close, lips parting on greedy sounds that were buried easily in the wet sounds of skin meeting skin and Crowley’s sweet words. Compliments spilled so easily over Aziraphale like this, pressed into his skin with every kiss, punctuated by hungry drags of teeth. Sometimes, he’d get a hint of fang when Crowley’s control slipped, a tease of sharp claws. It should’ve been terrifying, these reminders that it was a demon thrusting into him. It was exhilarating. It was blindingly brilliant, trusting someone so wholly, knowing this demon would never hurt him.

It was also a wicked point of pride. Aziraphale loved knowing he could take Crowley apart so thoroughly like this, drive him to those slips. He gasped when claws bit into the meat of a thigh, a gowl in his ear making him moan. “Dearest- Oh- My darling, it’s-”

“Yeah. Yesss.” Crowley knew his claws were tangling in Aziraphale’s curls, catching and tugging just a little, but he also knew Aziraphale didn’t mind in the slightest. His words slid away into eager sounds and his hips bucked helplessly everytime he tugged a little harder on purpose. He didn’t like a lot of pain, his angel, but Crowley loved exploring what he did enjoy. “Keep- mngh - keep moving for me, angel. You’re doing ssso well.”

He was so tight around him and so eager in his movements, every jiggle drawing Crowley’s gaze like a moth to a flame. He’d tasted nearly every bit of skin at this point, yet his hunger still hadn’t been sated. He was certain it never would be. The little bruises he’d left behind were already darkening at his throat, over his shoulders. There were a few on his thighs from past joinings, a few more fading across his hips. He loved the signs of them, loved the whimpers digging his thumb into a mark wrought. He loved Az-

Well. Some thoughts were better thought alone in the dark of his bedroom when sleep stubbornly eluded him and not in places they were liable to slip out. They had this, this dangerous new facet of their relationship, and as greedy as he was for more, he couldn’t have it. He would never put Aziraphale in such a position. It would help neither of them, especially if this all went to pot.

So he bit his tongue on that and let other things flow free. “Love how you look when you take me. You’re alwaysss beautiful, but thisss... Oh, my angel, sss’like you were created for me.” A hand left his thigh to curl around his cock, thumb rubbing a favoured spot just beneath the tip. “And me for you.”

Aziraphale choked on a groan, fingers flexing helplessly in the blankets, and Crowley lifted a little to get enough leverage to move even faster. Harder. Aziraphale’s thighs were beginning to tremble, his hips jerking out of rhythm, and Crowley’s hand finally left his hair to grasp his waist. Fingers sinking into plush curves, indenting soft skin, he thrust faster and harder. Ozone rippled across the air for only a moment before a faintly charred smell joined a rustling sound. Several rustlings, Aziraphale’s sounds as garbled as Crowley’s were wont to be at times as he realised that Crowley’s wings had unfurled. He looked over his shoulder, gaze not so blurry that he couldn’t see him like this. Eyes like molten gold corner to corner, dark hair curling over his sweaty brow, a dusting of hair highlighting the sharpness of his determined jaw. Determined to bring them both pleasure, every single beat of those immaculately groomed wings driving him hard and deep and, oh, oh- “Crowley!” he cried, eyes closing as he crested, muscles clenching tightly around Crowley as he spilled over the blankets a second time.

He was only vaguely aware of Crowley following him over the edge, of wet heat spilling deep. He was very aware of the way Crowley folded over him, the buttons of his shirt pressing along his spine, the way his wings surrounded them both, the way his claws dug sharply into his hips. Aziraphale’s cock gave another weak spurt when fangs nipped at the nape of his neck, right where his shirt collars tended to sit snug. He shuddered, felt Crowley’s answering shiver, and smiled. “Wings?” he wondered, breathless.

“Mm.” Claws disappeared, gentle hands caressing bruises and stroking over marks left on Aziraphale’s quivering thighs. “Seemed like a good idea.”

“You could’ve knocked over a bookshelf.”

“Never,” he promised and his tongue smoothed over that bite mark to soothe.

Humming, Aziraphale reached out a hand to stroke through striking black feathers and simply believed him. “Are you at least rid of all of that tension?”

Crowley pressed his laughter between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. “Ridiculous thing. Feeling much better, yeah. You?”

“Jolly good, I’d say.”

“ _Only_ you would, you relic.”

* * *

Mr. Harrison and Mr. Cortese were the top two suspects, should anyone ask the servants of the Dowling Estate. And the police had. Multiple times. Not that they weren’t suspicious on their own. Mr. Cortese, in particular. He couldn’t seem to keep his address straight in his head, either saying Soho or Mayfair or simply gesturing upwards in a great show of impatience. Somewhere North, they surmised, but how odd. He also tended to blush and stutter when asked what he was doing on the two nights in question, and couldn’t remember the names of the victims no matter how many times they were repeated.

They would’ve said it was because he was bad with names considering that he also seemed to struggle recalling the names of the other servants, but those of murder victims tended to rate highly on the Worth Remembering Scale.

It was the same with Mr. Harrison - the seemingly flippant disregard for the names of the deceased, not the inability to remember his address. He rattled off the same flat in Mayfair each time; however, it had proven impossible to perform a stakeout of any sort on it or him. So many officers, for some reason, tended to get turned around when they approached the building, that the blame had befallen GPS systems. Though, even on foot, officers would sit across from the building and not gather anything of use. No one even knew for sure what the man _drove_.

Beyond that unexplainable chaos, he seemed too delighted to talk to them. Always grinning excitedly when he wasn’t remembering to school his face into something smooth and neutral, and just filled with questions. Usually, those questions were comparing old films or modern shows to actual police work. And, usually, recordings of interviews with Mr. Harrison inevitably ended up proving that the officers answered more questions than the interviewee himself did. 

So they were, of course, very suspicious men. One was outright lying and the other was evading, though both denied having anything to do with the murders outright. 

Mr. Cortese, however, tended to wiggle a bit anytime anyone asked him if he had any knowledge of the gardens, particularly where the first body had been located. Very, very suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a ghost in this chapter and some of my ghostly headcanons  
> 🎃 Happy Halloween! 🎃

“You know, the cook won’t share lemonade with me anymore. She says she’s far too busy,” Mr. Cortese complained, huffing at the arch look Mr. Harrison sent over the tops of his sunglasses. “I _like_ American lemonade.”

“Miracle some.”

“It’s not the same,” he sighed, eyeing Mr. Harrison longingly.

It took ten seconds for him to stand and five minutes to reach the kitchen, pausing at the threshold when he saw far more than only the cook invading the space. It was certainly large enough for multiple people, but not at all what was expected. Usually, it was only the cook and her assistants. She had three now, maybe four? Only one was sleeping with Harriet.

“Oh, Mr. Harrison!” Harriet greeted, abandoning the new gardener to approach. She smiled brightly and he side-stepped when she reached for him, managing to make the move seem as if he’d only been trying to get out of her way so she could leave. She paused, hands fumbling, but the smile didn’t fade. “How are you?”

“Thirsty.”

“Are you?” the very married woman who was not Aziraphale purred. And, really, he was all for adultery. He’d seen far too many forced and unhappy marriages through the millennia to have any reason to judge her. She could string as many people along as she wanted. He actually rather respected the effort such a massive game required. Knowing all the moving parts and keeping them on an even keel - perhaps Harriet should’ve been the politician rather than her oblivious husband. 

But, for adultery or not, he and his libido only had room for one being. One being who wanted some stupid lemonade. “Yeah.” He looked at the cook, brows lifting at the suspicious way she eyed him. He didn’t pay the glaring gardener any mind at all. Sometimes, he missed coming down with a baby on his hip and flirtations ready to tease Brother Francis with. Other times, he remembered that Mr. Harrison’s flirtations had gotten a lot further than Nanny Ashtoreth’s and that solved any wistful feelings there. “Glass of lemonade, actually, if you have some.”

“I-”

“Oh, in the fridge.” Harriet was only too happy to make her way to it to pull out a pitcher and a glass. Warlock had to pull his colouring book out of the way of her clicking heels, and Mr. Harrison eyed him with some of his own suspicion. It distracted him enough to let Harriet very deliberately brush their fingers together when she handed him the glass, lashes fluttering. “Did you... want anything else?”

“Nope. This is for Mr. Cortese anyway. Ta.”

As he made his way down the hall, he heard Harriet’s favourite chef assistant return to the kitchen and her flirtations aim there instead. He and anyone else could have her. He had an angel.

An angel who tilted bright blue eyes up at him, smile equally bright, when he set the fresh glass at his elbow. “Thank you, dearest.”

“Shut up.” Mr. Harrison returned to his chair to continue his grading and squinted at a number-filled paper. “He’s good at math. _Why_ is he good at math?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Mr. Cortese admitted with a sigh. They’d agreed to split it because, well, neither of them cared one whit for the subject. Somehow, Warlock was excelling with his numbers far more than he was with anything else. Mr. Cortese leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink and humming happily. “Did she give you any trouble?”

“Nah. Harriet was in there.”

Mr. Cortese's gaze turned rather frosty. “Was she?”

“Yeah. I got your lemonade and left, though. Didn’t stick ‘round for gossip.”

“I’m surprised at you. I thought you enjoyed gossip. Like those, ah, silver ladies you always watch.”

“Golden Gi-” He cut himself off, slanting him a look and determinedly not smiling at the little pleased wiggle Mr. Cortese graced his chair with. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Mr. Harrison. I’m merely making... polite conversation.”

“Menace.”

He lifted his chin. “Hardly.”

* * *

“Is it a pattern now?” Aziraphale asked the next morning.

Crowley’s lips pursed, but he sighed. “Alright, _yes_. It's a bit... dodgy that they were all killed right after ending up in Harriet's bed. Or at least her arms,” he amended, considering the assistant hadn't made it out of the kitchen. 

“Well, we don’t know for sure that’s what happened. All we know is that they were being... flirtatious yesterday.”

“Yeah, s’pose.” It hadn’t been a stabbing this time and, well, Crowley wasn’t entirely keen on going in. The poor sod didn’t have much of a face left, and that wasn’t a feeling Crowley particularly wanted to feel. “Warlock was around, y’know. In here. When they were... flirting. Lends a bit of weight to your idea.”

“That he’s protecting her? Well, I hope so. All this death would at least be for a noble cause.”

“Right. Yeah. Murder for good,” he muttered. “Makes this loads better.”

“If we know where his thought process is, we can redirect him to more healthy alternatives. Or- Or I can,” Aziraphale murmured, abruptly remembering that he was supposed to be teaching the good things and Crowley the wicked. He wished they could work together a bit more, but that was rather the opposite of cancelling each other out.

If Crowley felt the same way, he didn’t say. He couldn’t. This had been his plan, and it had been hard enough to get Aziraphale to agree without trying to change things seven years in.

Sighing, he made himself comfortable on the floor and was surprised when Aziraphale sat next to him. “Angel?”

“Just making certain you don’t fall and injure yourself. Or, well, your corporation. I’ve seen how limp it gets in the study.” Aziraphale took one of Crowley’s hands in both of his, rubbing it gently. “You don’t have to stay through the entire murder. Surely you can... skip that bit?”

“If he mucks up and is seen, I need to be there.”

“But...” Aziraphale looked at the body; they both did. The assistant was unrecognisable, unfortunately flat head laying in a puddle of blood and, er, other unpleasantries best left inside a body. For once, the murder weapon seemed to be gone. “Is it possible that he did that strictly with his, er, abilities?”

“What, magically popped his head like a zit?”

Aziraphale’s disapproving gaze snapped to him. “ _Crowley_!”

He only shrugged in response. How else was he supposed to describe it? “Might’ve done. Won’t know until I’m in there.”

“I suppose not. Just, please, if you can’t bear it, I’ll-”

Crowley didn’t wait to hear what he’d do, cupping his jaw, fingers delving into the soft curls to keep his angel in place for a shushing kiss. “You’re not going to do anything. I know how to mitigate it. Besides, it’s just a memory. Someone _else’s_ memory, for that matter. ‘Sides, he might not, er, have enough attached anymore for me to access stuff.”

“Right. Yes.” They both looked back down for a brief moment before Aziraphale gave Crowley’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I just don’t like the idea of you experiencing unnecessary pains, my sweet.”

“Ngk,” he protested, escaping the endearment by stepping out of his corporation and into the deceased one. 

He couldn’t talk in this body, couldn’t stop it from twitching either. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, reaching for the corpse’s hand when one of the twitches seemed more deliberate than the others. 

Harriet, the assistant thought, was a nice piece of ass and not much else.

> _“Oh, how awful.”_
> 
> _“They can’t all be saints, can they?”_
> 
> _“No. This one’s most definitely yours.”_

He could still hear her heels on the floor, walking away whilst he reached into a pocket for cigarettes he wasn’t supposed to be smoking in the kitchen. Eager for the nicotine hit, he turned around and was suddenly pitching forward. That’s all Aziraphale got before he was pushed out. The pain to the back of his head lingered as he blinked and reached a hand up to cautiously touch just in case. Goodness. What a hard strike that had been. So full of fury, even though he’d barely gotten a chance to feel it at all.

Aziraphale adjusted Crowley’s bizarrely empty corporation, encouraging the cheek to lay against his shoulder and holding gently while the human spasmed and twitched and gurgled. Crowley didn’t speak when he slipped from body to body, nor did he pull out of Aziraphale’s hold when he settled. Gentle fingers began to stroke his hair the first time his chest rose and fell in a bid for air that didn’t feel clogged with bodily fluids. 

Maybe he’d been lying a little bit about being able to mitigate the pain, but it wasn’t the first time he’d lied to Aziraphale about his own woes and it was unlikely to be the last. He took the readily offered comfort, though. “It was a mallet. Like, ah, for meat.”

“A meat tenderizer?”

“Oh, yeah, I’d say he’s been tenderized.”

Aziraphale huffed, but pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Silly serpent. How do you know what was used?”

“Saw it hit the ground once instead of the bloke. He passed out before he got turned around, so that’s all I got.”

“A small mercy, I suppose.”

Not really. “Yup. So another one where they saw nothing and felt nothing. Nothing useful, anyway.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “It's three deaths in a month, Crowley. What... What can we possibly do to calm him?” 

“We'll figure it out, angel. Maybe he just needs someone who isn't so easily killed? Or at least not so easily snuck up on.”

“These are nothing but unsuspecting humans, dear boy. We can't exactly tell any of them the child is murdering out of some unusual desire to keep his mother... pure?” 

“Little judgemental there, angel.”

“I suppose,” he admitted. “Just a touch. It’s only that I don’t quite know how to describe it otherwise. If we understood his motives a bit better, we could adjust his lessons. Perhaps I should tell him of Cain and Abel...”

“We’ll figure it out,” Crowley repeated, pushing a bit more conviction into his tone so Aziraphale would believe him. So he would believe himself. He pushed himself up and stood, offering his hand. “I’m running late for his morning lesson now anyway, so you’ll handle the police?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale didn’t need the help up, but he took it if only to give them both an excuse to hold hands. “It may be better that you’re not spotted listening in on them again as it is. I think some of the servants may suspect you.”

“Really?” Crowley’s brows arched. “I’ve heard some of them suspect you.”

“That’s ridiculous, Crowley. _I_ am an angel.”

“A scruffy one.”

Aziraphale released him immediately, checking his pocketwatch pointedly. “Running late, you said?”

“Yes, yes. We’ll meet at the bookshop later?”

“I’d like that. I’ll have the wine ready.”

* * *

One of the maids saw Mr. Cortese attempting to spy on the police investigation. His name was on every servants’ tongue by dinner. 

Unfortunately, angels weren’t exactly immune from suspicion. One would assume Mr. Cortese had learned this from his brief stint in the Bastille, but alas.

* * *

Too many wine bottles were scattered across the bookshop. Aziraphale squinted, very carefully holding one over his glass. He still splashed more onto his desk than into the container, but he did so very carefully. None splashed onto the demon sitting at his feet that time, a scruffy jaw rubbing against his bare thigh now and again and Aziraphale’s free hand dropping into his hair. He didn’t know when exactly Crowley had left his lap, but he didn’t mind the wine-stained kiss marks appearing on his skin. A fanciful part of him was tempted to spend a miracle making one of them permanent. A tattoo of his own, somewhere only he and Crowley would know about.

Thoughts for sobriety.

These were all probably thoughts for sobriety, another sucking little kiss drawing his wobbly attention. “Hm?”

“Sssaid I’ll do it.”

Aziraphale blinked, nodding blearily for several seconds before wondering, “Do what?”

“Bait.”

Aziraphale blinked again, rubbing a hand over his face for good measure before letting it fall back to Crowley’s hair. He twirled a lock around his finger. “Bait.”

“Myuh. For... for the, uh, mngh, nyuh, frsh, Great Beassst.”

“Great Beast,” Aziraphale echoed as if he understood what was being said. They were far too deep in their cups. “Antichrist. Antichrist?”

“Antichrissst.”

“Sss,” Aziraphale hissed, hand sliding lower to stroke along his jaw and feel the silkenness of his beard. He was tempted to sober up a little and draw Crowley between his legs. “I like your hiss.”

“I know.” Crowley was tempted to sober up a little and settle between Aziraphale’s legs. “Like your thighsss. She’sss too... Not you.”

“Who?”

“Harriet.”

Aziraphale hummed, slipping his thumb between easily parted lips. “What- what about, um, Harriet? Dowling?”

“Mm. F’r bai’,” he managed around Aziraphale’s thumb.

Something very slowly clicked in Aziraphale’s very intoxicated brain. Something terrifying enough to break through both the haze of burgeoning arousal and the alcohol. “You’re-” His thumb left Crowley's mouth so he could cup his cheek. “No.”

“No?”

“You- You can’t- Not with _her_. Can’t- M’too drunk f’r this. Sober, um, sober- Get sober, yes.”

“Mngh,” Crowley complained, pressing his cheek to Aziraphale’s thoroughly kissed thigh whilst the alcohol drained from his system. Not all of it, mind. He still kept a little liquid courage in his veins. He still smacked his lips, the dry mouth and dizzy sensation needing an extra few seconds to dissipate. An unfortunate side effect. “Fuck.”

“Crowley, are you offering yourself as... You’re willing to...” Oh, thank Heaven he hadn’t drunk this glass. Aziraphale swallowed it down. “You want to have, er, relations with Harriet just to enrage Warlock?”

“ _No_. I’m not planning on getting in bed with her.” Crowley looked up from the kiss marks he’d left on plump thighs, scowl in place and golden gaze annoyed. “Just wanna know what Warlock might do if he _thinks_ I have, or if he thinks I’ve got designs on his mum.”

“What if he discorporates you?”

“Hell would be _thrilled_. They want him to get that violent, Aziraphale, remember?”

“But the process to get a new corporation must be... lengthy.”

Crowley tipped his head in acknowledgement, a fingertip running along one of Aziraphale’s golden stretch marks. “Possibly not, all things considered. Might get one quick as a reward.”

“Or you might not.”

Ignoring that, Crowley looked up. He was beautiful, down to sock garters and an open button-up and frowning at him with all that sweet concern. “M’not planning on getting discorporated, anyway. Just gonna flirt with Harriet in front of him for a bit, then stay later than normal one night.”

“What about me?”

“What _about_ you?”

“I’m not leaving you to be attacked by the Antichrist on your own, Crowley! Out of the question. Your staying can be announced, but I could, ah, hide away. And come to your aid should you need it.”

Crowley rubbed his thumb against Aziraphale’s thigh. “Don’t trust me not to sleep with Harriet if you’re not around?”

Aziraphale refused to acknowledge the tease. “No, I don’t trust Warlock not to discorporate you, and I _don’t_ trust Hell enough to give you a body back quickly. Neither of us has ever been discorporated, darling, and now is truly not the time to lose one another. What if they send someone horrid up in your stead?” he added, seeing Crowley’s protests rise in his eyes.

They died before ever fully forming. They _could_ send someone else. A duke, perhaps. Someone with more power than Crowley if they thought he was too weak to handle an Antichrist so very willing to kill. “Right... Stay, then. Tuck you in the study, yeah? I’ll, ah, take Harriet to her room, leave her with an idea of what a night like me would be like-”

“Not too accurate, I hope.”

“-and then head back. Watch the shadows like none of the others have.”

“Crowley...”

He lifted to his knees and tucked himself between Aziraphale’s legs, cupping the creases of his hips and stroking the pale, sensitive flesh of his inner thighs. “I’m not letting you play the bait instead, angel, so I’ll do it, and we’ll teach the brat why it’s wrong to try murdering people. Or you will. I’ll just, er, stare at him disapprovingly. Or something.”

Aziraphale sighed, stroking his hair and letting neat nails scritch his scalp. “You’ll come straight to the study?”

“Yup.”

“You won’t, ah... With Harriet, you won’t... Well, I- We haven’t exactly discussed what, er, what this- this- what it is between us, so I wouldn’t dream of- But I’d rather- That is, I... ah...”

“I only want you,” Crowley promised. He only ever had. “I'm not going to touch her. Won't even kiss her. This is just the best way to keep him from killing anyone else, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed quietly. “I certainly hope so, dearest.”

* * *

“I still don't like this, Mr. Harrison.”

He fiddled with a cufflink, making sure it was positioned just so, and arched a brow. His hair was neat, and he was all slim lines and angles in his wonderful suit and, oh, Aziraphale didn't like this at all. 

“It'll be _fine_. Just watch how Warlock reacts.”

* * *

“Harriet,” Mr. Harrison purred, and Mr. Cortese didn't see Warlock so much as look up from his numbers. Mr. Cortese, however, bristled. He was very used to that tone and did not enjoy hearing it directed at someone else. “I was wondering if we could... discuss Warlock's progress tonight. Just the two of us?” 

“Tonight?” She didn't bite her lip, but it was a near thing. Mr. Cortese gripped the edge of the table whilst her gaze raked predatorily along Mr. Harrison’s lean frame. How utterly ridiculous of him. How shameful. An angel being possessive over a demon. Particularly since he knew nothing was going to come of-

She ran her fingers down his tie and he _smiled_ at her. Mr. Cortese nearly came out of his chair, but stayed very still. Warlock was watching now, with a little cock of the head. But it was as if watching a cartoon he'd seen many times before, not something infuriating. Just... absent. That was a good reaction, wasn't it? 

“Mummy?” 

“Just a minute, sweetie.”

“But, mummy, I want to show you my numbers.”

She tore herself away from Mr. Harrison with an apologetic smile, stepping closer to lean down and look at the messily coloured in numerals. Mr. Harrison made such a genuinely disgusted face, a snap swapping his tie with another which was also imperceptibly different. The relief that crashed into Aziraphale was almost worse than the terrible possessiveness. Gosh. 

He knew, of course he knew, that Crowley had been telling the truth about his desires. He’d been able to feel the demon’s love growing and growing across the millennia, a startling emotion to feel rolling off of a demon. Not something he’d expected to feel from one. Certainly not. He’d watched Crowley interacting with humans and the things they created, watched the way he’d smiled and laughed and just _enjoyed_ things through the ages and, foolishly, Aziraphale had believed the feeling was one directed at all the Earth. He’d been able to accept that explanation.

Until 1941, anyway. The world hadn’t felt worthy of love then, though Aziraphale had been doing his best. He’d just been lonely and afraid that his dearest friend would never darken his doorstep again. He’d been upset that holy water would dare be the thing to drive a permanent wedge between them after nearly six thousand years of roaming the world together. He’d been stunned to see him in that blasted church, upset complete enough that he’d accused him of working with Nazis. 

But then the foolish creature had dropped a very literal bomb, trusting Aziraphale to keep them _both_ alive and had still remembered Aziraphale’s vulnerable books. He’d _remembered_ to keep something only Aziraphale truly cared about safe. Oh, he knew Crowley was lying when he claimed he didn’t read, but that didn’t mean the demon cared about books. Not like the angel did. So he’d kept that bag of books safe _only_ for Aziraphale.

And he’d known then, their fingers brushing and a burst of love - bigger than any bomb could ever hope to be - had been for _him_. He’d only been able to stare for a few minutes, watching him pick through rubble on burnt feet, and had been so in love himself that he’d been sure Crowley knew. Surely, he’d been pitifully obvious in his affections. 

He was certain he still was. Even more so now that a new layer had been added to their friendship. He knew Crowley loved and wanted him and only him, felt it pulsing beautifully in the air each time they were able to press together. It was as intoxicating as wine. 

Aziraphale still had absolutely no business acting like an overly jealous terror. He rose just in time to get drenched by a sudden spray of water that had him gaping like an unfortunate fish. Crowley stared, just as startled, but Warlock was giggling and Harriet sighing. She leaned over the balcony to yell something at the gardener, but he didn’t pay attention. Not when Crowley was taking his hand. “Right. Let’s get you dried off, Mr. Cortese.”

He followed easily, heading back inside on Crowley’s heels. “I suppose that was some sort of... karma.”

“Karma?”

“Yes. I confess I... didn’t enjoy watching her throw herself at you. I may have been thinking some unkind thoughts.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley pulled him into a side room, the pair finding themselves in some sort of guest room. Taking both hands, warmth seemed to pulse straight from the demon to steam away the damp from Aziraphale’s clothes until they were as good as new and Aziraphale was left feeling rather pleasantly toasted. “Better?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you, sweet.”

“Ngk. Anyway, s’not like I _enjoy_ it. I’d really prefer it if she didn’t.”

He knew the answer, but asked anyway. “Really?”

“‘Course.”

Aziraphale smiled, squeezing his hands in thanks before releasing him. “Well, come along. Warlock will have to come inside for the rest of his lessons, I think, so long as that menace of a gardener is still watering deck plants.”

* * *

Crowley’s philosophy with humans had always been, and would always be, to leave them wanting. As with most things, he didn't see much point in checking off one box when the same amount of time and effort - or even less - could be spent to check off many. Seducing humans was one of those things. Why _only_ check lust and have to go through all the work? Why not check lust, wrath, _and_ envy by putting in every move just to walk away with someone else? 

It was especially effective wearing a woman's shape and toying with men. Crowley knew how to target the worst of them and put them in their place. 

It was more difficult donning a male shape and luring women, but they could be just as unhinged as men. It simply took pushing a different sequence of buttons. Harriet's were laid out and clearly labeled. Even without having spent six years as Warlock's nanny and, by default, Harriet's confidante, Crowley would've known what order they needed to be pushed in. 

It made the day incredibly easy and incredibly difficult all at once. There was a stopping point, but the road to it was bumpy and he couldn't even use his Bentley to navigate. She was handsy in her flirtation, comfortable knowing her husband was a few days away yet. Three murders at one's London residence couldn't possibly distract from whatever it was Thaddeus Dowling did in the States. Crowley would wager he did the same things Harriet did. He was too stern not to be gagging on a prick once in a while. 

But that was neither here nor there. He had to focus on her, on making sure she and anyone else could be clued into his advances. He wasn't sure just how clear things needed to be made to a seven year old Antichrist, not having paid any attention at all to how Harriet played with others. At least he knew she couldn't stand the gardener, so plucked a rose off one of the bushes and tucked it in his breast pocket for Aziraphale as an apology for all this even while remarking that the flowers looked a little lackluster. The gardener's teeth gritted, but Harriet laid a hand on Crowley’s arm, and he only just managed not to shrug it off. Simple lust temptations were apparently going to be much more difficult from now on, considering the uncomfortable ball of guilt which had annoyingly settled right in his stomach. Right from that first frigid look from Aziraphale.

Whoops.

But then he hadn’t considered that the angel would be jealous when his drunken mind had decided that, “Oi, I’ve a grand idea.”

His equally drunk mouth had decided to say it and then his sober mouth had somehow thought it was just fine. He’d never _seen_ Aziraphale good and jealous before, so how was he supposed to know? Crowley even kind of, er, liked it. He liked it a Heaven of a lot more than he did dealing with Harriet, and was grateful to finally abandon her near dinner. Her husband was calling and she always ate with Warlock, so he escaped to the study professionals had cleaned after the maid had been found. Then less professionally and far more thoroughly by an angel and a demon. The fewer traces of the deceased there were to cling to, the more difficult it was for their spirits to stay behind.

Aziraphale - or was he Mr. Cortese at present? - flicked his gaze up from the desk, a blue pen in hand as he dashed corrections over Warlock’s schoolwork. And notes to himself, Crowley knew, to enable him to tutor things better. He was taking the boy’s education far more seriously than Crowley was, which was sweeter than it had any right to be. 

Ridiculous angel. “Having fun?”

He leaned back, regarding him through a pair of reading glasses that weren’t nearly as charming or antique as his usual little round pair. Crowley preferred the ridiculous pair, no matter that this rectangular one worked very well for Mr. Cortese. He almost - _almost_ \- regretted teasing Aziraphale into picking something more modern than the abomination that had been Brother Francis’s look. Excellent, honestly, for a child’s image of what a friendly old gardener might look and sound like, and excellent for Crowley’s endless delight in teasing Aziraphale for absolutely anything and everything.

There was very little to tease here, though he still did his best. He’d name himself after bloody _wine grapes_ , after all, the absolute hedonist. 

“Not especially. You?”

“Even less.” He perched on the corner of the desk, the toe of his shoe prodding at Aziraphale’s trousered calf. Taking the rose out of his breast pocket, he tucked it into the angel’s. “Harriet’s off to chat with her husband and eat, so I’ve got time to enjoy myself.” He glanced at the papers on the desk, brows lifting as he realised they weren’t for Warlock’s schooling after all. “Police files?”

“Mm.” He touched the delicate petals with a fingertip, smile soft and fond for a moment before he redirected his attention to the papers spread across the desk. “Do you remember when they asked me in for a chat a few days ago? I was given the papers,” not that anyone remembered handing them over, “and I’ve been looking over them at night after...”

Crowley’s grin flashed. _After._ “Find anything entertaining?”

His brows drew together as he looked up. “Well, for some odd reason, _I’m_ among the suspects they have listed.”

“ _No_.” Crowley leaned over, shuffling through the files until his hand was swatted away.

“Stop that. You’ll disrupt my organization.” He whisked out a page and offered it. “I really only wanted to see if they suspected Warlock, but they very clearly don’t.”

“Who would? He’s _seven_ , and you’ve seen how everyone thinks he’s some kind of perfect kid.” When Aziraphale hummed noncommittally, Crowley perused the list and his brows rose. He didn’t know a single name on the list - except Harriet, Cortese, and _himself_ \- but he assumed they were all other servants. He didn’t even recognise the victim names. “Hang on, they suspect me, too?”

“Well, you are a demon,” Aziraphale reminded him, smoothing imaginary creases in his trousers. “Though, being that I’m on there, I assume they’re merely doing their, ah, due diligence. Eliminating everyone.”

“This note says ‘lying in interviews,’” Crowley pointed out, grinning at the pretty blush visible above the curls of his neatly kept beard. “Dunno that they’re planning to eliminate you from the suspect pool.”

“It’s against my nature,” he defended. “As an _angel_.”

“Uh-huh. You can claim that all you like, Aziraphale. I know better. You’re just too honest for your own good, angel or not. Oi! ‘Asks too many questions,’” he read with a scoff, missing the small smile Aziraphale sent him. “‘Course I ask questions. They’re asking me shite; fair’s fair.”

“What a terribly undemonic thing to say,” Aziraphale teased, smile bright in the face of the glare it earned. “Anyway, now that I have these, I just thought I might provide some assistance.”

“Angel, fuck’s sake, you can’t turn in the Antichrist.”

“No, but you - er, _we_ , rather - could provide a bit of misdirection? Other criminal activities which are of far more...”

“What?” Crowley wondered, shifting to see whatever it was that had caught Aziraphale’s eye. He didn’t see a blade sticking up from her nearly transparent head, but he could see the blood of her wounds matting her hair and dripping into fabric. The stains on her dress, the way her nails had broken from the way she’d clawed for freedom, the way her head didn’t sit on the slit throat quite right, the gashes and hack-marks, the torn stockings - she looked as she had when she’d passed to him. And, even though he’d just looked at her name on the page, he had no idea what it was. Roxanne? Rosie? Ruth?

Aziraphale was just as uncertain. Mary? Marcia? Margaret? But, where Crowley saw her upon death, Aziraphale saw her body whole and possibly even better than it had looked in life. Her hair was groomed and her skin clean of wounds, her clothes neat and clean. Her shoes were even on, though she hadn’t been wearing them at all when she’d been killed. Her spirit wanted them, so Aziraphale saw them. 

What both could see was the faintest of glows about her, proof of her destination. It’d be a red flame-like flickering otherwise.

Aziraphale set his pen down with a smile. “Hello, my dear.”

She didn’t respond but, then, they never did. They couldn’t without a conduit and neither of them were willing to offer their corporation, even for a minute, to something which had the potential to become vengeful. Crowley because he didn’t particularly care to lose control of his body and Aziraphale because, as a general rule, he didn’t condone vengeance. Petty back-and-forths with Crowley were entirely different.

“I understand you went through quite the shock a few weeks ago.” He folded his hands, smile just as gentle, and Crowley’s eyes rolled hard. 

“Tell her all about Paradise, angel, see what happens.”

Her expression fell into surprised, curious lines, and Aziraphale nudged Crowley firmly. “Heaven is wonderful for humanity, Crowley, and you know it.”

“ _I_ don’t know any such thing. They didn’t have a half last I was up there.”

Aziraphale turned pink at the slip, clearing his throat. “Yes, well...” He glanced at his papers, checking both name and photograph of the victims before he found her. The modern gendering of names was beyond him. “Laura, don’t you want to cross over?”

She pointed up and he nodded. “Yes, my dear. I understand you were frightened when Death came? He can be a bit intimidating when one isn’t prepared to meet him, but he’s really not so bad at all.”

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale ignored him. He closed his eyes instead, opened too many others, and the room pulsed around them. Crowley lifted his feet from the floor, sitting on the desk with his knees to his chest as the floor turned golden and holy. It almost hurt to look at, the demon incredibly grateful for his sunglasses as he watched it narrow to a circle near the maid’s spirit. And then it speared up, a column of warmth that tingled uncomfortably over Crowley’s skin. It was the same way the lobby felt of the main entrance to Heaven and Hell, one such entrance incredibly close. He focused on Aziraphale instead, not all of the eyes attached to his corporation. He could see the faint outline of his wings like this, just as shimmery and not-quite-there as the maid. He reached out, unable to resist, and smiled to himself when his fingers didn’t pass through the sheer white feathers. He stroked gently, a few of those shimmering eyes looking his way. He could _feel_ the fond amusement in them, and it was much better than the prickling of Heavenly light behind him. 

When it finally faded, the blue eyes he was used to seeing opened, and Aziraphale’s lips quirked. “Enjoying yourself, dearest?”

“Enjoying you, anyway. Your wings would be softer if you preened them once in a while.”

Aziraphale hesitated a moment. “Is that an offer?”

It was an intimate one. More so than just the sex, their corporations such a small part of themselves. Well-lived in and comfortable parts of themselves, but small nonetheless. Their wings were that link to more, the surest sign that there _was_ more. Crowley’s heart thumped in his chest, and the serpent in him wanted very much to spread his own wings. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale’s smile was more blinding than the holy light. “Later, then. I’d like that very much.”

* * *

“Mr. Harrison, I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow as he stepped into her bedroom, hands slipping into his pockets even when hers gripped his tie. He tipped his head to the side and slipped off his glasses. He didn’t need to, not really, but it did make things a little easier.

When their gazes met, her fingers went slack and her eyes a little glazed. “Right, good. You can go ahead and get in bed. Don’t bother undressing. I’ve seen you at least partially naked three times in someone else’s head, and I’m not looking forward to a repeat. Not that there’s anything wrong with the way you look,” he reassured her, watching her nod dully as she backed towards and sat on the bed. “Good. Last thing I need is to give you self-esteem issues. Well... more self-esteem issues. You know there’s nothing actually wrong with you." He paused.

“Well. Apart from the constant adultery and dangerous spoiling of Warlock.” And how _painfully_ easy it was to manipulate her. No wonder the nuns had convinced her to name the kid bloody fucking _Warlock_ of all things. Damian, he’d thought, had been the intention, which was horrendously unoriginal but at least would’ve been better than what he’d ended up with.

“Actually, the adultery isn’t a problem so much as how sneaky you are even with the people you’re having affairs with. You’ve strung along a few genuinely good ones, and one of them got killed over it.” Crowley leaned back against the door, arms folded as he watched Harriet watch him. “I’m not going to say something ridiculous like ‘change your ways,’” he assured her, wiggling his fingers for emphasis of the ridiculousness. “You’re not my assignment, so you just keep making your human heart happy however you like.”

He flicked up a finger. “Except.” 

“Except?” she wondered dully.

“Mr. Cortese. He’s exceptionally gay," in a manner of speaking, "so stop making eyes at him. He’s not interested.”

Muted disappointment filtered over her features, and Crowley adjusted a cufflink. “Anyway, onto this... thing. After I leave, give yourself the orgasm you’ve convinced yourself I was going to provide, have a bath, and go to sleep. When you wake up, you’ll think we had a great time - because, well, I haven’t had any complaints so far.” And he very much intended to not get any complaints from his angel. Not ever. “But it’s not going to happen again. It was good, but it’s not appropriate to get with someone that close to Warlock. Another good reason for you to leave Mr. Cortese alone too. Got it?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Right.” He slid his glasses back on and loosened his tie, making sure the rest of his clothes appeared the right amount of disheveled. “As soon as the door closes, you can start your night. Capiche?”

“Yes. Goodnight.”

He ruffled his hair a little to give it a more disheveled look, as if they’d done quite a bit more together, then turned and walked out. The door locked behind him and he cast a quick look about to see if Warlock was anywhere to be seen. Nothing. Fucking grand.

If this didn’t work, he’d really hate to have to do this all again. It’d be more awkward to get over the hurdle he’d put in her mind. At least he’d taken Aziraphale off the table. Not that he’d been on it to begin with, but Crowley _knew_ he himself was a jealous bastard and didn’t want that spilling over the angel. It was humiliating, for a start.

Crowley, like anyone else lost in their thoughts would be, didn’t see the presence moving in the shadows behind him. 

He wondered instead about Aziraphale’s wings, getting his hands on those downy, ethereal feathers. He’d love to straighten them all, to clean away the excess fluff from the fine plumage. They’d feel even softer, he was sure, when fully on the same plane of existence as him.

The knife that plunged into his shoulder was a shock to the system, his yelp more startled than from pain, though. And then offense because how the Heaven had he missed an approach? He lifted his fingers to snap time to a halt, but only ended up making the same ridiculous sound when the door opened and he pitched forward.

Right into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Oh, Crow- _Oh_!” 

Someone behind him grunted, but Crowley was too busy trying to remember how to stop time with the distraction of an angel dragging him backwards. Blood rushing through his ears, he almost forgot to look when Aziraphale whirled them around. Put his own back to a knife very capable of stabbing people to-

That was not a seven year old Antichrist. Crowley’s hands lifted in a firm snap, ripping the miracle upwards in a desperate rush that almost forgot to leave Aziraphale untouched. Wrapped tight in strong arms, he could only breathe heavily into Aziraphale’s ear whilst hot breaths tickled his. Their cheeks pressed together firmly, Aziraphale’s grip shifting to clutch at his jacket. “Oh, good Lord. Oh, Crowley. Are you alright? I thought I heard your footsteps - both of you, but I wasn’t sure- Not until you shouted. Did he hurt you?”

“Uh. M’fine.” His shoulder felt as if it was on fire, but he’d dealt with these sorts of wounds before. He was far more interested in who exactly was holding a blade far too close to his angel. It was his turn to pull Aziraphale, dragging him several steps away from the furious human.

The surprise at having two people in his preferred killing grounds had not, apparently, dulled his rage. Even though it didn’t make a single bit of sense. “The fucking _gardener_?”

“It would appear so.”

They drew back to share bewildered looks before Crowley pressed his lips together. “Must be... ah...”

“Could he, perhaps, be suffering from coercion?”

“What, by Warlock?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Ehhh, possibly,” Crowley said, though was shaking his head. He had absolutely no idea. He’d very much expected to be facing a child attacker, someone using all of his evilly granted powers for... well, for evil. “Could check?”

“How?”

“Possession.”

“You want to possess a _living_ human?”

“Alright, do I have to remind you that it’s much worse and a lot more unpleasant to possess a dead one? And I’ve done _three_ this month?” Crowley’s brows arched over his sunglasses. “You could let me have a _bit_ of fun, angel.”

“He’s a murderer, Crowley.”

“Well. Don’t know that for sure unless we check, yeah?”

Aziraphale let him go with a huff, the pair of them immediately missing the warmth of the other’s arms. “I suppose. You’ll be able to keep him calm?”

“Of course not, but I’ll be able to keep him in control.” Crowley sauntered to his usual seat, sprawling into it and shifting at the discomfort in his shoulder. He didn’t have time to fully heal that, so paused the pesky bleeding response his corporation had and lifted his hands to snap time back into action again. 

The gardener pitched forward, startled to find neither angel nor demon where they’d been before. He stumbled, off balance and looking around. He didn’t see the smokey version of Crowley crossing the room, but did feel a sinking feeling of dread in the air. Something dark and heavy. Something well and truly _annoyed_. He tried to slash towards the sensation, snarled at Aziraphale when he saw him, but couldn’t take a step forward. 

He couldn’t do anything he wanted to do, suddenly feeling as though he were trapped in a very small cage. He could see out of his eyes and feel the things his hands touched. He could see and feel his hands flip the knife over in his hands, could study the blade and feel the way his lips pursed. He even felt his mouth open, but the voice that came out wasn’t his own. It sounded like that insufferable Mr. Harrison.

“Angel,” Mr. Harrison’s voice said, laced with amusement, “he thinks I’m insufferable.”

“Well, not everyone can be wrong all the time,” Mr. Cortese replied brusquely, and walked towards the open study door. 

To his shock, the fat know-it-all closed and locked it. But he couldn’t lift the blade to strike. Witnesses couldn’t live anymore than the fuckers who-

> _“Oi, he may be a fat know-it-all, but he’s_ my _fat know-it-all. And since you meant that as an insult, I’ll have you know he’s my_ gorgeous _fat know-it-all.”_

Mr. Harrison’s sounded as if it was coming from everywhere all at once, but he knew it hadn’t been said aloud.

> _“Well. Not a complete idiot, are you?”_

“Mr. Harrison, perhaps he should take a seat.”

Though he didn’t want to, his body moved of its own accord and sat on the floor with his back against the wall. Mr. Harrison’s voice said, “Care to dig through his memories, Mr. Cortese? He’s a little bubble of rage, though. Dunno how nice it’d be for you.”

“Hm... Well, as long as we don’t delve into the acts themselves, I believe I’ll be alright.” Mr. Cortese sat nearby, and he felt himself reach out a hand. Felt it get taken. Felt a shock of something cool and calming crack over his head and drip down his spine.

Mr. Harrison’s chuckle spilled out. “That’s cheating, angel.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s a bit of a habit, I'm afraid. Now shall we?”

“‘Course.”

And suddenly it was his first day on the estate. He watched Harriet’s hips swing in her neat little skirt and wanted to-

> _“Oh, Heavens, he fancies her.”_
> 
> _“_ Fancies _her?”_
> 
> _“Whatever you wish to call it.”_
> 
> _“He wants to fuck her.”_
> 
> _“You don’t have to be so crass.”_

He barely heard a word she said through the tour, gaze on her lips. Her skinny neck would look good with his fingerprints on it. Her round hips would too. His interest grew and grew with every sighting. Her sassy American accent, her doe eyes, her smart suits. He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.

> _“...Well?”_
> 
> _“Do you truly have to ask? I’ve never felt anything less like love than this.”_
> 
> _“I know. I can feel exactly what this is.”_
> 
> _“And?”_
> 
> _“This is a predator seeing prey.”_

But she wouldn’t stay around him. She avoided him. She frowned at him and, when she did smile, it was weak and distracted. She wanted other people. She fucked other people. That _butler_ who bragged about women on the side didn’t deserve her. _He_ deserved her, and he was going to get her.

> _“No.”_
> 
> _“What?”_
> 
> _“That can’t possibly... Why, it’s so... What an unhealthy way to view a relationship. I certainly think you deserve to have me and I-”_
> 
> _“Do you?”_
> 
> _“Oh, dearest...”_
> 
> _“Right. I. Anyway?_
> 
> _“Ah. Yes. I think you deserve me, and I deserve you, but I don’t believe for even a moment we would cause harm to anyone else. That is, if you wanted someone else, I... I wouldn’t stop you.”_
> 
> _“We’ll... I... Never, angel. There’s never- There’ll never_ be _-”_
> 
> _“For me either.”_
> 
> _“...Oh.”_

He overheard them making plans outside the kitchen window. He waited on the stairs to see if that _prick_ would leave Harriet’s bedroom, and followed him when he did. He ducked low behind furniture to avoid being seen, his shadows short and blending in as much as possible in the low light. And then, as soon as the moment presented itself, he st-

He took the butler’s phone after, and it was in his cabin on the property.

> _“Then where on Earth did Warlock get his?”_
> 
> _“Could be Harriet gave it to him.”_
> 
> _“Gosh! You’re right. She’s seen him with it, and she’s never said a thing about it.”_
> 
> _“Ngk.”_

She said she was in love with Harriet. She whispered it to everyone who would listen, including him. She said how terrible a husband she had, and how she wished things would be different. So she had to go. He almost missed her, nearly caught by Harriet’s brat. He’d had to hurry a little, had nearly alerted her to his presence, but the ease with which the blade-

The chef’s assistant was the worst of all. He didn’t appreciate Harriet. She was beautiful and glorious and everything anyone could want, but he didn’t care. He just pressed her against the counter and-

After he grabbed the mallet, the first thing he saw from his hiding spot in the cabinet, he approached the assistant and-

He’d thought Mr. Harrison wasn’t a threat.

> _“Oi!”_
> 
> _“Well...”_
> 
> _“He’s only right about that a_ little _bit. We don’t have to watch this part.”_
> 
> _“Oh, but I’m very curious.”_
> 
> _“The Heaven you are.”_

Mr. Harrison was constantly making eyes at Mr. Cortese.

> _“I need to discorporate.”_
> 
> _“You’ll do no such thing.”_

And Mr. Cortese was constantly making eyes right back.

> _“...”_
> 
> _“Ohhh. No snappy comment here, angel?”_
> 
> _“Hm.”_

So neither of them were a problem. Until suddenly Harrison _was_. Maybe he was trying to rile Cortese up. Something like that, maybe, but then he heard him ask to see her later. It could only mean one thing and, when he’d aimed his hose, he hadn’t actually _meant_ to get Cortese, but at least they’d both left the balcony. They’d both left Harriet alone until that fucking ginger had walked with her through the gardens, the brat and Cortese nowhere to be seen. Letting her touch him. Smiling at her. Insulting him and the garden. He’d waited on the stairs again, though he’d come out much sooner than expected.

Disheveled, though. Must have just been a quickie, which was disgusting. Harriet deserved better. She. Deserved. Him.

> _“Ew.”_
> 
> _“Very mature commentary, my dear.”_
> 
> _“Matches this twat’s thought process well enough, doesn’t it?”_
> 
> _“Well...”_

He followed him, watched him, kept himself low, and sprang the moment he reached for the doorknob. The knife sank in-

> _“He stabbed you?!”_
> 
> _“Oh, bollocks.”_
> 
> _“You said you were_ fine! _”_
> 
> _“I_ am _fine. I-”_

Mr. Cortese was up and striding towards the desk. He watched, Mr. Harrison’s sigh spilling from his lips, as he started to tug away Mr. Harrison’s jacket and unbutton his shirt until he huffed and snapped his fingers. The clothes vanished and he desperately tried to jerk in surprise, but his body remained passively limp.

“Oh, good, you’re not bleeding anymore.”

“Turned it off before I left,” Mr. Harrison’s voice replied, and Mr. Cortese glared.

“If you’re expecting that to make me feel better, you are sorely mistaken.”

His shoulders shrugged, and he watched Mr. Cortese brush a finger over the stab wound on Mr. Harrison’s shoulder. He watched the drying blood disappear from Mr. Harrison’s skin and the stab wound knit itself out of existence. And then his clothes returned, neater than they’d been before.

“Ooh, angel, you tucked in my shirt?”

“Hooligan.” He sighed, straightening his own tie and brushing his palms over his thighs. “Well. What do you propose we do now? To _think_ , this was a petty human squabble all along...”

“Thank someone it was,” Mr. Harrison’s voice muttered, then seemed to consider for a moment. “We could always convince him to confess.”

“Together? Confession usually isn’t your preference, dearest.”

“Ha. I’ll show him what’s waiting for him without it. All that begging for forgiveness shite your side’s so big on.”

What were they talking about?

> _“Oh, you’ll see.”_

His voice sounded... a little too excited.

He suddenly had control of his body, but didn’t dare move with Mr. Cortese watching him like a bug under a microscope. Like he was so small, so far beneath him. Anger began to bubble up, especially when Mr. Harrison suddenly sat up straighter and rolled his shoulders. “Oh, that feels better.”

“Incredible what happens when you _tell me_ when you’ve been injured.”

“I could’ve taken care of it later,” Mr. Harrison pointed out and stood.

The sunglasses slipped off and he did jerk back, pressing himself flat against the wall when he got a good look at his eyes. They were golden from corner to corner, a serpentine black slit in the middle rather than rounded pupils. “What are you?”

Mr. Harrison smiled, his canines sharp and elongated. He wanted to say a vampire, but those snakelike eyes...

Suddenly he was on fire. Or at least felt as though he was. The hottest flames he’d ever felt seared into his flesh only to abruptly be replaced with the frostiest of chills, his skin turning black with frostbite, until it was getting stabbed. His turn now, his turn for an _eternity_. Things that looked like humans or like animals, things that had something just a little wrong with them leaping about, jeering and catcalling, and talking to him about _what he deserved_. 

“Oh,” Mr. Cortese said somewhere above it all, “you’ll drive him mad with all that.”

Suddenly it was cool and calm, clean and serene. Just kindness, goodness. It was a shocking relief after so much misery.

“Young man,” Mr. Cortese said quietly, golden and soft at the edges whilst Mr. Harrison flicked with something black and evil beside him, “you have your choice. I think, perhaps, you should telephone the police and tell them everything.”

“Or you can just leave. Leave and never return,” Mr. Harrison said grandly, almost like he was quoting a movie. Something that tickled at the edges of memory, but he was too terrified to reach for it. “Because if you stay, you have to deal with me. Every single day.”

_No._

“Make a good choice,” Mr. Cortese urged, hands folded neatly.

He ran.

* * *

“You know,” the cook said conversationally, pouring two glasses of lemonade, “I always knew the two of them were together.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed one of her assistants. “They’re not subtle at all. It was clear they were hiding _something_. It’s a shame about that new gardener, though.”

“Murdering three people...” She sighed. “I knew it wasn’t Mr. Cortese, you know. He’s far too kind.”

“Oh, yes. And he and Mr. Harrison are rather handsome, aren’t they?”

“Bit of an odd couple, though. Complete opposites.”

“But they work together.”

“S'pose. Oddest thing, that.”

While she hummed, Mr. Cortese and Mr. Harrison stepped into the kitchen right on time. They were as perfectly put together as they always were, but Mr. Cortese’s lips were a little fuller than normal and Mr. Harrison’s fringe wasn’t laying as neatly as normal.

The cook and her assistance exchanged glances before happily offering the freshly poured glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed 💖
> 
> Very big thanks to [ladydragona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydragona/pseuds/ladydragona) for suggesting that Crowley be an attempted victim XD Really helped drive the plot home, lol
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)!


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